Lost King Last King
by emn1936
Summary: He is the living embodiment of his parents' reckless romance and he understands now that their legacy to him has always been a throne he's never wanted and the duty to end what they had begun.
1. Jon

Jon

Tyrion's words painting a brutal picture of blood-soaked _liberations_ ringing in his ears, Jon eases the door closed behind him and buries his face against the wood. Nightmarish images of his siblings being dragged into the courtyard of a burning Winterfell to await execution play on his mind's eye. He swallows against the nausea rising in his throat and shakes his head to clear it.

He must find Daenerys. He knows he is not an eloquent man and as he strides past the row of Unsullied who line the decimated corridors of the Red Keep, he struggles to find the words that will bring her back from the abyss. He thinks of the bold and beautiful queen he had come to know on Dragonstone, the savior who flew her dragons beyond the wall to rescue him and his men, the girl he had come to love over long nights aboard a ship bound north. He has to believe that he can reach her. Has to believe he could not have been so wrong.

_What is honor compared to a woman's love._

The frail, reedy sound of Maester Aemon's voice echoes in his head and he thinks of his parents. They had sacrificed their honor on the altar of their love and set into motion decades of horror resulting in the deaths of others in numbers too unimaginable to calculate in the countless wars and conflicts which had arisen as one faction after another emerged to try to claim the throne and the power it represents. The weight of his parents' folly lies over his shoulders like a mantle forged of chain linked metal.

He is the living embodiment of their reckless romance and he understands now that their legacy to him has always been a throne he has never wanted and the duty to end what they had begun.

He comes to a stumbling halt when confronted with the dragon curled up at the entrance to the keep like a sleepy guard dog. There is a small part of him that wishes the creature would challenge his passage and prevent him from climbing the crumbling remains of the stairs leading to the throne room. But weeks of growing familiarity with Daenerys' children – or perhaps the Targaryen blood which flows through his veins – allows him to pass unmolested.

He watches from the shadows as Daenerys approaches the throne. The gaping wounds in the walls and ceiling reveal the fires still flickering in the distance as snow and ash gently fall around her and he closes his eyes against the sight of the loving caress of her fingers over the pommel of one of the swords that comprises the hulking, ugly chair.

Please, he prays, to any god – old or new – who will listen. Please do not make me do this thing...

She turns and sees him as he steps out of the shadows.

"When I was a girl, my brother told me it was made with one thousand swords from Aegon's fallen enemies." Her face is alight with wonder.

"What do a thousand swords look like to a little girl who can't count to twenty?" She takes a step toward him and her laughing eyes meet his as she invites him to share in her childhood memory. "I imagined a mountain of swords too high to climb. So many fallen enemies you could only see the soles of Aegon's feet."

Her tone of voice is playful. Her smile one of infectious joy and he wonders how he can reconcile this incandescent woman before him with the one who had wrought the devastation in the streets below this ruined tower. Her cavalier tone is frightening in the wake of her destructive actions.

"I saw them executing prisoners on the street," he growls wanting to shock her into acknowledging what she had done. "They said they were acting on your orders." He crosses the stone floor, his gaze boring into hers, looking for any sign of remorse; silently begging her to deny it.

The easy smile drops away from her face.

"It was necessary."

"Necessary?" Incredulous, he takes one step back. "Have you been down there? Have you seen?" Shock reverberates in his voice as rage uncoils within him like a writhing snake. "Children!" he shouts. "Little children burned!"

The sudden rage gives way to a growing despair as he watches a blank expression come over her features.

"I tried to make peace with Cersei. She used their innocence as a weapon against me. She thought it would cripple me."

Her voice is soft. Reasonable. And he needs so badly for her to say _something_ that will make him understand that for a moment, he almost wavers. But then the winds shift, bringing with them the acrid smell of the smoldering city below and his anger swells again.

"And Tyrion?"

"He conspired behind my back with my enemies." She moves closer to him, a look of pleading for understanding in her lovely eyes. "How have you treated people who have done the same to you?" she asks, her voice cracking with emotion as she seeks to connect with him. "Even though it broke your heart."

Jon thinks of Olly and of his own regrets and in that moment he is broken, his rage washing away beneath exhaustion and sorrow.

"Forgive him." _Be better than me_, he urges wordlessly.

"I can't." she whispers.

"You can. You can forgive all of them," he pleads. "Make them see they made a mistake. Make them understand." _Help me to understand for I cannot._ Grief weights his words. "Oh, please Dany."

He hears the naiveté, the childish plea in his voice and some part of him knows that his request is falling on deaf ears but then she looks away from him, conflict forming a crease between her brows and for a moment he sees her – the woman he fell in love with – and he thinks he is reaching her.

"We can't hide behind small mercies," she murmurs. "The world we need won't be built by men loyal to the world we had."

Her voice is soft and as patient as a parent counseling a confused child.

"The world we need is a world of mercy," he counters. "It has to be."

"And it will be." The beautiful smile he loves curves her lips. "It's not easy to see something that's never been before." She moves closer and her eyes are alight with the fervor of her own beliefs.

"A good world," she whispers, laying a delicate hand upon the boiled leather of his armor.

"How d'you know?" His northern burr thickens as tears fill his eyes and clog his throat. "How d'you know it'll be good?"

"Because I know what is good," she tells him in a tone so calm and sure. "And so do you," she whispers intimately.

"I don't," he tells her dejectedly for he cannot make any sense of a good world birthed from so much horror.

"You do," she croons. "You've always known."

She gathers him into her arms, one hand on his shoulder as she rises onto her toes to better meet his tortured gaze, until her lovely face fills his view.

His heart breaks then for he does know what duty requires he do and yet he is so tired he wants nothing more than to lay his head upon her shoulder and rest. He stares into her eyes and for one wild moment he wonders if he can simply take her from this place and find some quiet spot away from war and death – back to their waterfall where they can live the rest of their lives in peace.

But he sees that fervent light in her eyes and he knows that nothing he says – nothing he is – nothing he can offer – will ever be enough to pull her away from the lure of the throne she has chased all her life.

"What about everyone else?" he asks brokenly. "All the other people who think they know what's good?"

She settles back onto her heels, her expression placid and patient as she says, "They don't get to choose."

He thinks of all those people in the city below – the elderly and the infirm, the men, women and children who didn't choose to be pawns in this war between two queens. Cersei and Daenerys had chosen for them and he knows that Dany will not stop now. He thinks of his siblings. Of the North and of Winterfell. Of how he had worked and sacrificed and _died _to save its people from the threat beyond the Wall.

And in his heart he knows his home will be next. Knows the North and his family will be forced to submit or suffer the same consequences as this wretched place.

"Be with me," she begs, drawing his hand up to her face. "Build a new world with me. This is our reason," she breathes. "It has been since the beginning. Since you were a little boy with a bastard's name and I was a little girl who couldn't count to twenty."

His eyes rove over her beloved features and in her words he hears the distant echo of the queen he had pledged himself to in the belief that they could make the world a better place. He remembers the bastard boy of his childhood whose dreams had been to make something of himself and to find his own place in the world.

Bastard no more, he is both the son of a fallen prince and of the honorable Eddard Stark.

"We do it together. We break the wheel together," she breathes, love in her eyes.

"You are my queen. Now and always." Heart breaking, he has nothing left to offer her but this final vow before taking her mouth with his in one last kiss.

He feels the serrated gasp she takes against his lips. Hears the echo of Olly's blade penetrating his heart. Understands that the look of shock and betrayal in her eyes is a mirror of his own on that fateful night. He wants to beg for her absolution and knows he does not deserve it.

Weeping, he cradles her in his arms and watches the light fade from her eyes. He does not know how long he holds her as the snow continues to fall about them. The world is still and silent, the only sound is that of his own breath escaping in hitching gasps as tears roll down his face to soak into his beard.

Torn between his loyalty to her and his duty to the realm, his was the final betrayal.

"I'm sorry." He lowers his face to hers and whispers the words into her ear. "I am so sorry." A tear splashes from his cheek to hers in a final benediction. He presses one last kiss against her lips. He tastes the blood that trickles from the corner of her mouth and in that moment, he wants nothing more than to follow her into oblivion.

TBC

A/N: I have a handful of chapters already written as well as a slew of notes "scribbled" on my phone which need to be put into some cohesive form of writing.

I see this as an eventual Jon/Sansa pairing - but it will be a while before we get there. And in no way do I intend to vilify Daenerys. I have long loved her character and I choose to believe that too much loss and too many betrayals - both real and imagined - pushed her to a breaking point.

This first chapter is a re-telling of that final scene in the throne room as I imagined it from Jon's POV. The rest of the story will be original scenes.


	2. Arya

Arya

Not trusting Jon to look out for himself, Arya follows her brother throughout the day, keeping him in her sights while staying out of his. When she realizes he has gone to confront Daenerys, she quickens her pace, determined to end the queen's life if he cannot bring himself to do so. She watches from the shadows as he approaches the queen. Sees him alternate between rage and desperate pleas. Watches as his resolve falters and knows the moment he regains it. She wants to look away when he lowers his mouth to Daenerys' lips. Wants to afford him a moment's privacy.

She longs to step out of the shadows and stop him when his hand lowers to the dagger at his hip. Yearns to spare him. To take this grisly task from his hands and into her own. Though she wishes to turn her eyes away, she braces a hand against the stone wall and bears witness to the moment when her brother sacrifices his honor and love for duty.

Arya cannot remember the last time she has truly, truly cried, but tears course unchecked down her cheeks as she sees Jon cradle Daenerys in his arms and she knows then that he truly had loved the silver-haired queen. The floor is blanketed in white and a curious hush that only snow can bring falls over the room. Her own chest heaves in concert with her brother's hitching sobs and so fixated is she on the tragic tableau playing out before her, she is only dimly aware of the screeching dragon call coming from below.

She is frozen in horror as the entire tower shudders under the weight of the dragon clawing its way through the ruined walls and she wants to call out to Jon who seems unaware of the danger behind him. She sees his gaze flick to one side as he gently lowers Daenerys' head to the floor and even as the hot breath of the dragon bears down on him, he is visibly reluctant to be parted from her.

_Run! _

Arya wants to scream. Wants to dart out and grab her brother by the hand, to pull him to safety and instead she is forced to watch Jon rise to his feet, moving aside to allow the dragon access to its mother.

Arya realizes that even she is not so hardened as to be unmoved by the dragon's display of grief as it nudges the queen's lifeless body and makes odd chittering noises as if trying to awaken her. She clamps her hands over her ears when the creature rises on its legs and stretches to its full height, its anguished shrieks deafening and shaking the damaged walls of the keep.

Terror thickens her throat and freezes her feet in place when the dragon turns its menacing attention to the man standing near its mother's body. She wants to call out to Jon as he stands tall, ready to face the creature's judgment and in that moment, Arya knows that part of him would welcome the oblivion of death.

"No!" The sounds of her screams are lost in the dragon's furious growls and suddenly the room is awash in flame. She collapses to her knees, believing her brother to be consumed by the dragon's fiery breath. She dashes her knuckles against her eyes and instead she sees that the dragon is directing its ire toward the throne as if it understands its mother's craving for the iron seat was the source of all her sorrows.

Sweat trickles down Arya's face, for even from her distance she can feel the heat of the dragon's breath. She does not know how Jon, so close to the flames can survive it, but though he repeatedly ducks away from the fiery blast, he seems unharmed.

It is only when the throne is a molten mass of steel that the dragon backs away. It stares at Jon for a long moment before it tenderly curls one huge talon around its mother's still form. Gently lifting her, the creature launches itself from the edge of the ruined keep, the fallen queen's limp body cradled in its grasp, her hair a silver banner streaming behind them as they disappear into the clouds.

She hurries from her hiding spot when Jon collapses to his hands and knees next to the place where Daenerys had lain.

"Jon."

Though she calls his name softly and lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, he startles, his fingers reaching for Longclaw. The blade is halfway drawn from its scabbard when she sees recognition come into his eyes.

"Arya," he gasps. "What are you doing here?"

"I've been following you all day."

He slumps back onto his knees and she steps closer.

"Are you alright?" she asks softly.

His breath hitches once. Twice. And then they are lunging for one another. He buries his face against her stomach and she curls her torso protectively over him. Beneath her fingers, the leather of his armor is warm and bubbled in places from the heat of the dragon's fire but she ignores that in favor of crooning wordless sounds of comfort into her brother's ear. He sobs, an incoherent litany of guilt and grief, and she tightens her arms fiercely around him.

She allows him a moment or two and as the initial storm of tears begins to subside, she cups her hands around his damp cheeks, tilting his face up to meet hers. "We have to go, Jon." She can hear the distant sounds of footsteps marching up the stone stairs and knows there is not much time before Daenerys' men arrive to investigate.

"I..." Dazedly, he turns his head toward the bloody patch of snow and stretches a hand out as if to touch the last remaining bit of his queen in this place. "I... cannot..."

"Jon." Arya tightens her grip on his jaw and forces him to look at her. "We have to go. Now. Or do you want them to take us both?" She unflinchingly wields the best weapon in her arsenal, knowing that his desire to protect her will outweigh his belief that he deserves whatever punishment may be coming his way. She wraps her fingers around his arms and as he stumbles to his feet, she looks wildly around the remains of the throne room. Once upon a time, she had known this keep and its secrets well.

She guides him around the molten steel of the throne and into a darkened hall. Grasping his fingers in hers, she breaks into a silent trot, wending her way down one hall and into another. They are forced at times to turn back whenever they encounter a passageway blocked with debris until finally she finds what she is looking for and slips into a hidden passageway that runs behind the walls.

Their chests are heaving with exertion as they make their way down, down through the tower. Arya is frantically trying to visualize the layout of the grounds surrounding the keep, knowing that it is likely to be much altered in the aftermath of yesterday's firestorm. The godswood is closest to where they will exit the keep, but she knows that it is not the densely wooded sacred place of Winterfell and there are few places to hide within it. They burst through a door and into the daylight and she sees the Tower of the Hand. The uppermost portion of the tower, including the Hand's apartments, has been destroyed by dragon fire, but the lower portion seems to be mostly intact. More to the point, it is the place she knows best in the Red Keep, its hidden passages having been her playground for all those weeks she lived there with her father and Sansa.

She has long ago stopped praying to the gods and instead she offers a prayer to her father, that he will look over them and protect them. She glances for signs of Daenerys' troops and sees a few Dothraki milling about in the distance, their attention turned in another direction. Looking up at Jon, she explains her plan with hand gestures. Drawing Needle from its scabbard, she watches him unsheathe Longclaw and they dart across the open area and into the tower.

Rubble from the upper portion of the tower covers the floor and they allow a moment for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. Arya scans the area and then closes her eyes, using her memories to re-familiarize herself with her surroundings.

"There." She opens her eyes and twists her torso to point toward one curving wall of the tower. Picking their way across the debris, Arya trails a hand over the smooth stone of the wall until she finds what she is looking for. She squeezes her way through a small, hidden entrance and tugs on Jon's hand in a bid for him to follow. He ducks and grunts as he pushes his larger frame through the barely noticeable gap in the stone and then follows her down the sloping stairs until they settle on a landing to catch their breath.

"We cannot stay here forever." Jon leans his head against the stone of the wall behind him and looks at her through weary eyes in the dim light filtering through the ruins of what had once been the tower high above them.

"I'm going to get help," she tells him. "You stay here."

"Arya." He shakes his head and lays one large hand over the back of hers. She twists her wrist and weaves her fingers through his.

"I _murdered the queen_," he tells her. "I cannot avoid judgment forever."

"No," she rebuts fiercely. "You saved the world from her and her dragon. You did what had to be done."

He shakes his head in denial of her words.

"Jon." She tightens her fingers on his. "Do you think that I will allow you to sacrifice yourself for doing the right thing?"

"I don't... gods, Arya. I don't know that what I did was right."

"I don't speak Valyrian, but even I understood the words 'Winterfell' and 'Dorne' when she spoke this morning," Arya ground out. "And so did you."

He nods wordlessly and lowers his head to his knees.

"She would have gone to Winterfell next," Arya pressed. "She would have done it to put you in your place. She would have done it to teach Sansa a lesson."

She sees his shoulders flinch and hates that she is hurting him. But she needs to make him see. Needs him to pick himself back up again. This time, she needs him to fight for his own life instead of fighting for others. She just got him back. She cannot, will not, lose him again. And she needs him to fight for his crown. The realm needs a good man to restore order to the chaos that has brought them to the brink of utter destruction.

"Jamie Lannister killed Aerys and did not face judgment. Robert Baratheon killed Rhaegar and took the throne. Why should you face execution when they did not?"

She shifts onto her knees and rests her cheek against the crown of his head, runs her fingers through the curls escaping the knot he wears, as she does, in tribute to their father.

"Jon," she whispers. "You are my brother. The brother I've always loved best. The one who always understood me and loved me for who I was. Please. Please don't give up on me now."

He swallows thickly and bobs his head in acknowledgment of her words. She slips down one step and ducks her head, waiting patiently for him to raise his gaze to hers.

"I want you to stay here," she instructs him.

"I should go with you. It's dangerous out there."

"More dangerous for you than for me," she reminds him. "I can move without anyone noticing. Just... promise me you will stay right here."

"Where are you going?"

"I have a plan. But first I need to find Davos."

TBC

A/N: Apropos of nothing, about three-quarters of the way through the final season, I realized that what I wished for Jon was that he could go North to live in peace with the Free Folk and his wolf. Which is ultimately what I got so I don't wholly hate Jon's ending. But Sansa becomes Queen in the North. Arya goes off exploring on her brand new ship tricked out with the Stark sigil on the sail and figurehead at the bow (and who knew the Starks were rolling in that kind of money to be able to afford such a ship...). Bran becomes King and does whatever it is that Bran does and Tyrion returns to the second most powerful position in Westeros.

But Jon is forever to be known as a criminal and expected to pay for his crimes by serving at a now-useless Wall? No. I was thrilled to see him just shrug off the punishment and head North to live his life as he see fit. I wanted all the build-up of Jon's parentage to actually mean something. D&D called the knowledge of who he actually was to be the most incendiary thing to happen. GRRM reportedly settled on turning his baby over to them to film based on their knowledge of who Jon's parents were and in the end I wanted it to mean _something_; to be as important as it had been built up to be. And that's where the idea of this fic was born.


	3. Jon II

Jon

Jon rises to his feet and silently eases Longclaw from its scabbard when he hears the slight, scraping sound of boots in the passageway beneath him. He blinks against the throbbing pain of the headache pounding behind his eyes and tries to focus, though he knows he is in no condition to take on more than a few men.

"Jon?" Arya's voice floats toward him and he lowers his sword to his side, leaning exhaustedly against the wall for support.

She appears out of the gloom, a glowing torch in one hand, and with her is Davos, his familiar, grizzled features lined with worry.

"It's a fine mess you find yourself in, your Grace." The older man lays a kindly hand on Jon's shoulder before pulling him into brief hug. He turns his head so that his mouth is close to Jon's ear. "I am so sorry, my boy," he whispers. "So very sorry."

Jon shudders and for a moment he cannot speak, instead tightening his grip on the other man's arm as he struggles to compose himself.

"I am glad to see you, Davos." Jon's voice is muffled against the Onion Knight's shoulder. "Though I'm certain you cannot say the same. I seem to keep dragging you from one mess to another."

"Aye," Davos agrees. "But as it's always in service to the greater good, I've decided not to hold it against you."

Jon pulls back.

"I'm not sure that is always true my lord, especially in light of what has happened in this place, but I appreciate your saying so." There is a long, weighty silence, and then,

"I failed again, Davos."

"We all did, your Grace." The knight lays his hands on Jon's shoulders and gives him a little shake. "Do you remember what I told you when you awoke at Castle Black, lad?"

Jon nods.

"It still holds true. You fight for as long as you can."

"Clean up as much of the shit as you can," Jon finishes with a watery grimace.

"Aye."

Jon's had time to think as he awaited Arya's return. He does not believe he will ever forgive himself for turning on Daenerys. Knows he will never be able to scrub away the memory of the surprised gasp she took or the taste of her blood on his lips. But he is unwilling to leave Westeros vulnerable to the remains of her army. He will do what he can and then he will turn himself over to face justice.

"What's the plan?" He turns to Arya who has sidled close and tucked herself under his arm, much as she had done when they were children.

"This passage connects to a series of tunnels that run under Kings Landing. We are going to follow it until we are outside of the city gates where the remains of the northern army is camped and awaiting its king," she tells him.

"And then you will return with the might of your army at your back and we will see what we can do to restore order to the city," Davos finishes.

"The people of this city – those who remain – do not need more fighting in the streets," Jon cautions. "And I am not sure that we have the numbers to take on the Unsullied _and _the Dothraki."

"Well, then," Davos shrugs. "We'll just have to find a way to resolve things without raising our swords."

"That's it?" Jon barks out a disbelieving laugh. "That's the plan?"

"That's the plan." The older man's lips curve upward in a wry smile. "Let's not overthink it. Things tend to go to shit when we try to plan for every eventual outcome."

Jon huffs out a tired snort then gestures to Arya who leads the way, her torch cutting through the gloom of the tunnels until finally he can see daylight. He emerges, blinking until his vision adjusts and is immediately surrounded by his men. Davos arches a brow toward a nearby captain who barks at the men to fall into formation and Jon takes a moment to gather himself and his thoughts.

"We marched south to honor the pledge I made to Queen Daenerys." Jon's voice is steady, but pitched so that every man can hear him as he methodically moves through the rows of Northmen. "To support her in her fight for the throne as she supported us to defend our people against the dead. But what happened here yesterday was not a battle between two armies. It was an extermination of civilians. I did not bring you here to be a part of this! There is no honor to be found in the wholesale slaughter of innocent men, women and children."

His chest heaves and he sucks in air to steady himself as the urgency and conviction of his voice carries over the hushed crowd of men.

"The Lannister army had surrendered. I saw it. You all saw it. The city had surrendered. We all heard the people calling for mercy. We all heard the pealing of the bells. And yet I was grieved to see many of my Northern brethren willingly participate in the sacking of the city. Was shamed to see so many of you engage in the slaughter of children and the rape of women and the execution of men who had surrendered their arms."

Fists clenched at his side, he prowls the length and breadth of the ranks of his men. His voice trembles with barely leashed rage and battle-hardened soldiers look away, unable to meet their king's gaze.

"The North has long held itself out as an example of a life lived with honor above all else. But many of you disgraced the North and your houses yesterday. Ned Stark would have been ashamed of you. King Robb would have been ashamed of you. I... I am ashamed of you."

He swipes a hand over his beard and blows out a long breath. Coming to a halt near the center of his army, his voice is a pitched growl, rough with anger, yet his words are clear to every man.

"That ends now. You are sons of the North and I expect that you will conduct yourselves with honor. You will act with discipline. You will be merciful to the weak and the innocent and you will help me to restore order to this city. I will not abide my men to bring more shame onto our homeland. If you cannot swear to do so, you must leave now, for I promise you on everything I hold dear, if I find you have brought dishonor to the North, I will execute you myself."

Hand wrapped around Longclaw's pommel, he stalks toward the front of the ranks. As the men fall in line behind him, Arya and Davos move into position on either side of him.

"And what of me?" Arya smirks.

"You are my sister. A daughter of House Stark and a spearwife of the North. Of you I have no doubts."

Beneath the many cuts and bruises littering her face, her features light up with pride.

"Well then, after you, your Grace." She sweeps a hand forward in an elaborate bow, grinning at the exasperated look on her brother's face before following her king back into the city.

TBC

A/N: Thanks to everyone who is reading, bookmarking, and commenting. I have no aspirations towards writing professionally or for profit. It's a fun hobby. A way of getting stories out of my head and "down on paper". Knowing that others are reading and enjoying and are engaged in a story is an added joy. I know this chapter is short, but it was ready and I wanted to post something. I hope you enjoy.


	4. Jon III

Jon

Grey Worm approaches with a few of his men and Jon moves toward him flanked by Arya, Davos and a dozen other Northmen while the rest of his army remains a number of paces behind.

"We cannot find the Queen," Grey Worm announces, concern etched on his face. "Have you seen her?"

Jon nods and swallows hard, a spasm of grief crossing his features.

"The Queen –" His voice is rough and he stops to clear his throat. "The Queen is dead," he says quietly.

Grey Worm's implacable control breaks for a moment and he stumbles back two steps before righting himself.

"How?" he growls menacingly and Jon shakes his head, sorrow etched across his face.

"It was me, Grey Worm. I... I had to stop her."

"You..." Grey Worm looks at him in utter disbelief for several heartbreakingly long seconds before his features harden. He raps out a command in Valyrian and several Unsullied advance forward, spears pointing toward Jon prompting Arya and the men surrounding him to draw their own weapons.

"Stop!" Jon roars.

"I will kill every one of your men if you do not hand yourself over to me now, Jon Snow." Spear in hand, Grey Worm moves ever closer to where Jon stands.

"Who are you to tell a king what to do?" Arya asks.

"I see no king," Grey Worm spits at Jon's feet. "I see only a traitor. A queenslayer." Wrapping his hands around his spear, he plants the wooden shaft into the dirt and leans forward with menacing intent. "You ask who I am? I am the Queen's Master of War."

"Your Queen is dead," Davos says bluntly, aware of Jon flinching at his side. "And as such, her authority over this place and any rank she bestowed upon you no longer exists. And you are not of Westeros. It is not your place to decide the fate of our king."

"My men say otherwise." With a jerk of his head, more Unsullied step forward, brandishing their lances threateningly. The air sings with the sound of Northern swords leaving their scabbards and Jon can feel Arya all but vibrating with rage at his side. He lays a hand on her shoulder, willing to her calm and then takes a deep breath and steps forward.

"Grey Worm. Can we not speak?"

"I do not speak with traitors," Grey Worm growls. "You used our Queen – her dragons and her armies to save your home," he seethes. "You pretended to love her. You let our Queen and her armies defeat your enemies for you – first in the north and then here in the south. And now that she has done so, you have murdered her. Do you think I will let you live to take her throne?"

"Grey Worm. That is not –"

"I know who you are, _Dragon_," the Unsullied leader snarls. "I know that she feared you would betray her. I know that she was right to be afraid."

"A few moments," Jon appeals again. "Can we not speak together for a few moments before we commit our men to more bloodshed?"

Grey Worm's face quivers with barely-leashed rage before he manages to regain his control. Taking one step back, he flicks a hand out to his side and his men immediately withdraw their weapons, returning to a position of rigid attention at his back.

"A moment or two. No more."

"Thank you." Jon's signals to his own men to lower their weapons even as his fingers drop to fidget with the knot belting his sword at his waist.

"Jon," Arya breathes worriedly as he strips the belt away, wrapping its trailing ends around the leather scabbard protecting Longclaw.

"All will be well, little sister." Jon places his weapon in her hands with a comforting smile. "I promise."

Grey Worm's gaze sweeps over the unarmed man who has moved away from the protection of his guards and similarly hands his own weapons to his second-in-command, growling and shaking his head in response to whatever the other man said.

"What is it you wish to say?"

"Will you walk with me?" Jon moves forward, picking his way through the rubble littering the street then stops, waiting for the other man to catch up. "All of my life I believed myself to be a bastard. You may not know what that means but in most places in Westerosi society, a bastard is a shameful thing." He glances downward and drags the toe of his boot through the debris at his feet. "Because of that, I have only ever wanted to act with honor and to defend the North against those who would threaten it."

He looks up and stares into the other man's eyes.

"Nearly every decision I have made in my life has been in pursuit of those two things. And my people would tell you that many of my choices have been reckless and ill-advised because I expect others will deal honorably with me as I would with them."

He presses the tips of his fingers against his eyes before leveling his gaze on the silent man at his side.

"I came to Dragonstone to ask the Queen for help in my war against the dead. I did not plan to fall in love with her but I did. I saw in her a woman who wanted to be a force of good in the world. And because of that, I trusted her with my home. I trusted her with my family. When I learned the truth of myself – of who my parents were – of what that made me – I trusted her with that information, even though I knew she would feel threatened by it. Even though I knew it might drive a wedge between us. Honor demanded that I be truthful with her though I knew others would advise against it.

"I never wanted the throne. I brought my army south to help Daenerys take it. Because I had pledged myself to her. Because I believed her when she said she wanted to break the wheel and replace it with something better. Because she was the Breaker of Chains who cared for the smallfolk. Because I saw that Ser Jorah and Tyrion, that you and Missandei and so many others all believed in her so fiercely."

He tears his gaze away from the other man and gestures to the streets around them.

"But... I could not... cannot support this. And I could not allow what happened here to be the fate of the rest of the realm. There is no honor in what took place here yesterday. Is this what you imagined all these years that you have been following Daenerys? When she spoke of breaking the wheel did you think that meant she would use her dragons to murder innocent civilians?"

He begins walking again, relieved when Grey Worm silently follows.

"The people of Kings Landing – they don't care about thrones and politics. They just want to get through their lives as peacefully as possible. They want to be able to put food on their tables and clothes on their children's backs and a roof over their heads. They were not loyal foot soldiers in Cersei's army. They are the ones who have always been made to suffer each time someone new rises to take the throne."

He stops near the crumpled body of a tiny girl – no more than three years of age – a ragdoll clutched in one hand. Blood stains her clothes from the gaping wound in her chest, an Unsullied spear lies in a dried pool of her blood, and he feels his own chest seize as a sob lodges in his throat.

"I know that Missandei's death destroyed something in both you and in Daenerys. Yet, I cannot help but wonder what she would think if she had lived to see this." He crouches and for no logical reason other than his own comfort, settles the child's limbs so that she appears merely to be sleeping. "Would the good-hearted Missandei approve of what took place here?" He tucks the doll close to the girl's shattered body and looks up to see Grey Worm staring off to one side, blinking rapidly against the tears that rise in his eyes.

"The last thing Missandei said before they killed her was 'Dracarys'," the Unsullied leader says in a thick voice. "She meant that we should destroy Cersei, but I have been blinded by vengeance since her death and I allowed myself to believe that she had given me permission to punish all who dwelled within the walls of this city." He swipes his fingers over his eyes and forces himself to look at the broken body of the child. "My Missandei was loyal to Daenerys but she would have been horrified to see her queen use her dragon to destroy innocents and she would have been sickened to see me abandon my honor as I have done."

Jon nods, squinting against the watery sunlight trying to pierce its way through the thick cover of clouds and ash above. "We have come to know each other over these many moons since we first met. We came together to fight the annihilation of the living at the hands of the dead. What happened here was no less an extermination." He pushes to his feet and risks laying a hand on the other man's shoulder. "I hope you believe me when I tell you again that I have never wanted a throne. That I did not come here to steal it from our queen. If I could have seen any other way..." He shakes his head and looks at the devastation all around him. "But I was a part of this. I had to be the one to stop it. And I need to do what I can to fix it. I am asking you to allow me to do that without having to raise arms against you."

Grey Worm continues to stare at the child sprawled at their feet and a muscle ticks in his clenched jaw as he finally reaches a decision. "I will not stand in your way, Jon Snow."

All the air rushes out of Jon's lungs in a heartfelt sigh of relief.

"Thank you, Grey Worm." He sets off again, pacing deeper into the city as the two men try to absorb the scale of the death and destruction that fills their vision. "I have no right to ask anything of you," Jon says as they walk, "but I would like you and your men to discuss whether you would consider staying with us for a little while at least, and help me to start to put things to right. I could use your help."

"I speak for the Unsullied. We will stay."

"I appreciate that, but still. I would like for you to speak with them. If you choose to stay, I will not ask you to swear fealty to me, nor to bend the knee. I would have you know that any or all of you are free to leave whenever you so choose."

"I will do as you ask and speak with them, Jon Snow. But I know what they will say. We will remain here and do what we can to fix what we have helped to destroy."

0o0o0o0

The noises of the camp beyond the walls of his tent fade and fatigue weights Jon's eyes, pulling him into an uneasy slumber. Sansa appears before him, a pitying look on her face as she gazes out upon the decimated city. _Surely you had to have known this would happen_, she says, sweeping a hand out to encompass the burned bodies piled in the streets. Her image fades, replaced by one of Dany, her glorious silver hair spread out across the pillows of his bed, delicate arms wrapped around his neck. _I love you_. Her whisper ends in a garbled gasp, a look of stunned pain and disbelief replacing the adoration in her eyes before she too slips into the mists of his dreams.

He tosses restlessly upon the furs on which he sleeps and finds himself crouched before the melted throne, a lifeless Daenerys cradled in his arms. _You pledged yourself to her and then forsook your honor_. Disappointment colors Ned Stark's words as he stares at the blood pooling on the snow beneath the fallen queen. _I thought I had raised you better but I am ashamed to call you my son_. His father's quiet rebuke scrapes over Jon's skin like a thousand tiny blades and he jerks awake with a gasp.

He flops onto his back and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. There are a million different things that require his attention. Dealing with any one of them seems a better option than slipping back into haunted dreams.

"Shove over."

He blinks to see Arya abandoning her own nest of furs on the other side of the tent they share. "I'm keeping you awake," he says as he levers himself up onto one elbow.

"Who can sleep after everything that has happened?" she grouses, standing over him. "Now shove over."

He shifts and lifts the fur cover so she can slide beneath. She settles on her side and he tugs the furs up to her neck, curling his body around hers protectively as he had done when they were but children together at Winterfell.

"Do you remember how I used to come to your chamber whenever there was a thunderstorm?" Arya whispers into the dark as she pillows her head on his outstretched arm.

"Aye. The others piled into the lord's chamber with Father and your mother, but you always came to me."

"Because I always felt safest with you." She rubs her cheeks against his sleeve like an affectionate cat and then twists her neck so that she can see him over her shoulder. "And because it made me sad to think of you alone and maybe scared too."

"Arya," he murmurs, his breath catching in his throat when she laces her fingers through his.

"You're not alone, Jon."

His chest heaves against her back and she tightens her fingers around his.

"I was terrified when I saw that dragon appear," Arya whispers. "I was sure he was going to burn you or eat you alive."

"Aye." He nods, hooking his chin on her shoulder.

"You just stood there," she murmurs, a hint of accusation in her voice. "Like you wanted him to do it."

Silence sits heavily upon them as they each remember those awful moments in the throne room.

"Did..."

He is so close to her he can hear the sound of her swallowing around the thickness gathered in her throat as she tries to force out the words.

"Did you want to die?"

"A little," he admits.

She twists her head and pierces him with a wounded expression.

"I'm tired, Arya," he breathes. "Tired of fighting. Tired of killing. Tired of watching the people I love die."

"So am I!" She rolls over to face him. "I've lost so many people already, Jon. Please don't make me grieve for you too."

His smile is a sad acknowledgment of all they have lost. They both know that no one is promised a tomorrow but he can vow that he will not seek out death.

"I won't," he promises. "Not yet."

"Not for a long time, if I have anything to say about it," she mutters before flopping back down. Pressing a kiss into her hair, he burrows into their shared furs and seeks his slumber, hoping the nearness of his fierce little sister will be enough to hold his demons at bay for the rest of the night.

TBC


	5. Tyrion I

Tyrion

Awakened by the sounds of the camp stirring to life, Tyrion rolls out of his furs with a groan and staggers to his feet. Poking his fingers through the flap of his tent, he peers outside and notes the sun has just barely begun to clear the horizon. Groaning again, he places both hands on the small of his back, stretches and remembers the last time he was part of an army encampment. The Lannisters, he thinks, even traveled to war with more style and thought to comfort than these rough men of the North.

Cleaning himself up as best he can, he follows a growing crowd toward the cook tent. Accepting a bowl of steaming porridge, he turns to seek out the king. He sees the Stark standard flapping in the breeze and finds his quarry seated beneath it.

"Your Grace." He inclines his head respectfully. "Might I join you?"

Jon waves a spoon toward an empty camp stool and Tyrion sits, nodding greetings to the others who flank the young king. Spooning up a mouthful of his breakfast, Tyrion works hard not to spit it back out. Lumpy and tasteless, the best that can be said for it is that it is warm and will keep a body from starvation.

"Not what you're used to, Lord Tyrion?" Davos asks with a sly grin.

"No, indeed." Tyrion scoops up another spoonful and forces it down as he watches Jon methodically shovel the unappetizing gruel into his mouth. "But needs must." He uses the tip of his spoon to draw patterns into the cooling mess.

"It tastes worse when it gets cold, if you can believe it, milord," Jon tells him. "Best to get it down while it's still warm."

Tyrion nods and forces another spoonful past his lips. The camp is relatively quiet, its occupants taking their cue from their solemn leader. Contrary to his verbose nature, Tyrion follows suit and studies Jon from across the small distance that separates them. He had been released from his makeshift prison the day prior by Jon himself and it had taken no more than a single glance at the desolate look in the Northern man's eyes for him to know that their queen was gone. Tyrion had silently followed the younger man from his cell to the Northern camp where he had sequestered himself in the tent assigned to him, tears of grief and remorse stifled in the musty fur he had wrapped around himself. He prides himself on being skilled with words and yet there are none which can relieve the younger man of the guilt which yokes him, though by all rights, Tyrion – who had known the queen and her fiery nature longer and better – should bear the greater portion of the burden for not having intervened sooner.

Tyrion sees the worried looks Arya and Davos slant toward Jon. The younger man is teetering on the edge and Tyrion knows the other two fear that the littlest thing could irrevocably break him. Jon needs a purpose. Something to put his back up against. Something he can control. And Tyrion, who pushed the grisly task of ending Daenerys' reign of fire into Jon's hands, thinks he knows where to start.

"Your Grace," he begins only to be cut short by the other man's exasperated sigh.

"It's Jon," the younger man says. "Jon."

"Your Grace, it is not seemly that I should address you so familiarly when you are the rightful heir..."

"Why?" Jon leans forward, dangling his empty bowl between his knees. "Just because it turns out that Rhaegar was my father and not Ned Stark?"

"Yes." Tyrion says. "For that is how it works."

"The Targaryens were deposed by Robert Baratheon and their reign ended."

"And yet you were fighting t'put Daenerys onto the throne." Davos murmurs, meeting Jon's wounded look solemnly.

"Because, I... because..."

"Because you believed she would be a better ruler than my sister," Tyrion says sympathetically. "Because you believed she would be a just and good queen. But also because you believed _her name_ gave her a rightful claim to the throne."

Jon slumps, one hand kneading the tight muscles at the back of his neck.

"And do you truly believe the people of the Seven Kingdoms will welcome one Targaryen on the throne just days after another incinerated the citizens of King's Landing from the back of a dragon?" he asks. "They would be mad to do so."

"You are the trueborn son of Rhaegar, who was beloved of the people. You were raised by Eddard Stark, believed by most everyone in the Seven Kingdoms to be a man who was just and good and honorable above all things," Tyrion points out. "You have proven yourself time and again to be Ned Stark in every way that counts. And you are already the king _elected_ by the lords of the North. For all of those reasons, yes. I believe the people would accept you as their rightful king."

"I gave up my crown when I bent the knee," Jon argues weakly.

"To a queen who no longer lives." Arya lays a hand on her brother's forearm and squeezes to take the sting out of her words. "I am of the North and you are my king."

Davos stretches out one arm and gestures widely at the encampment. "The men who follow you are men of the North. Your officers are sons of the Northern lords who chose you as their king. Some of them are destined to one day be the heads of their houses but they followed you south _because you are their king_."

"And will they still feel the same when they learn that I am not the son of Ned Stark?"

"Do you really believe the rumors haven't already started t'circulate through the camp?" Davos counters with an incredulous look. "But they're still here."

"Your Grace... Jon." Tyrion rises from his seat and moves to stand before the other man. "When you released me from my cell you told me that we had a lot of work to do and bade me follow you. And I did. Because, whether you like it or not, you are a man that other men wish to follow." He moves even closer so that his face is level with Jon's. "You told me you wanted to help the people of King's Landing. But the truth is that you can only do so from a position of strength."

"Daenerys said much the same thing to me when she came back to Dragonstone after burning the Tarlys." Jon scrapes his hand through his hair, loosening it from its knot and stares accusingly at Tyrion. "Is that still advice you would counsel me to take?"

"I would." Tyrion draws in a deep breath and stands tall. "You are not Daenerys. I do not have the same concerns about you as I did her."

"Because my coin landed on the right side?" Jon sneers and stares at the dirt between his feet.

"No. Because you do not want the throne."

"Then why –"

"Daenerys coveted the throne and the power it represented. She believed she was destined to rule. She was willing to do terrible things to claim the throne and its power. I, and all of those who followed her, told ourselves that the ends justified the means. That it was all in service to the eventual greater good that she – and we along with her – would do once she was seated upon the throne. On the other hand, you have always sought to do the right thing for your people, not because you crave power, but for no reason other than in answer to a calling to serve."

"Jon." Tyrion lays one hand on the other man's shoulder and waits until he raises his eyes. "A wise man once asked me if I ever considered that the best ruler might be someone who doesn't want to rule. I made the monstrous mistake of ignoring him at the time but now I know he was right. If you do not step in now, then more war will follow. Power abhors a vacuum and there are plenty of others who will fight to claim an empty throne. And once again, it is the people who will suffer. If you truly want to help them, you will claim your rightful place."

"You know he's right." Arya slides from her stool and crouches on the ground near Jon's feet. "This war between Cersei and Daenerys has pushed the realm into absolute chaos and it will only get worse if there are people trying to grab for the throne." She rises up onto her knees and cups his face between her hands. "You are a Targaryen and that gives you the best claim to the throne." She tightens her hold on him when he tries to flinch away. "But you are also a Stark and _that_ means that you will rule with the best interests of your people in mind."

Jon closes his eyes and nods and if his lashes are damp with unshed tears, none of them speak of it.

"Hell, Jon, you've even managed t'bring the Unsullied to your side," Davos says with a rusty laugh. But how do we go about getting everyone, especially the lords of the kingdoms, to agree to recognize Jon as king?" he asks, giving voice to the most pressing of their immediate concerns.

"I've been thinking about our bloody history." Tyrion pours a small measure of weak ale into a waiting cup and takes his seat again. "About the mistakes we've made." He takes a sip and looks at the others. "What unites people?" he wonders aloud. "Armies? Gold? Flags?" He shakes his head. "No. Stories unite people."

He meets Arya's skeptical gaze and presses on. "There's nothing in the world more powerful than a good story. Nothing can stop it. No enemy can defeat it." He takes a long draught from the cup in his hand and levels his gaze on Jon. "And who has a better story than our king?"

Jon's head snaps up and he peers at Tyrion from behind a tumble of dark curls.

"Your story, Your Grace, is one that will be told for ages to come. A trueborn king. The lost king. The infant heir to the throne, hidden away on a promise demanded by a fierce, young mother – a daughter of the North – clinging to life on her birthing bed. Secreted away to the North by an honorable uncle. Saddled with, but shielded by a bastard's name. Concealed in plain sight for his own protection from those who would murder him in his cradle as they had murdered his siblings. Sent to the wall just barely past boyhood to defend the realms of men where he fought bravely and assumed leadership reluctantly. Who defied thousands of years of animosity between the Night's Watch and the Free Folk so that he might save the people beyond the wall from becoming victims of the Night King. Who was murdered for his convictions and rose again to take back his home and unite all of the North – wildlings and Northmen alike – with one purpose and one purpose only. To drive back and defeat the army of the dead."

Tyrion pauses for breath. Jon's head is lowered, his face hidden behind a waving mass of hair but Arya sits straight-backed, her eyes shining with pride, a child-like delight in the tale he is weaving alight in her eyes.

"A man who never aspired to be king, chosen as such by his own people, who left the safety of his home against the advice of all of his advisors because he believed that brokering an alliance with a foreign queen was his people's best chance at life. You are Jon Snow, the White Wolf of the North, a Stark of Winterfell. Aegon, Sixth of your name of House Targaryen. You command a direwolf and you rode a dragon into battle against the dead. The Night King and his armies are defeated because you never lost sight of your objective. Even when those closest to you questioned your every decision or were blinded by their individual goals, you stayed the course. And after the Night King was defeated – " He pauses again when he sees Jon shoot a quick smile toward his sister "– you brought your army south because honor demanded you keep the vow you had made once your own home had been made secure."

"And when an even greater threat arose in the south," Tyrion leans forward, his voice thick with grief and guilt, "you chose again to be the shield of men, though the personal cost to you was great."

"You make me sound quite the paragon, Lord Tyrion," Jon murmurs gruffly, shaking his head back and forth as if in denial of Tyrion's words. He stares at his boots, unable to make eye contact with any of those sitting near him.

"You are not perfect," Tyrion counters. "You are flawed, as is any man. You've made mistakes. But even you cannot deny that every choice you have made has been in service to others. And _that_ is your story. A truthful tale which needs no embellishment. Who would deny a throne to such a man? Who would think to raise an army against such a man? Yours is a song of ice and fire and that is the story that we will spread throughout the kingdoms. _That_ is the song that will be sung for generations to come."

Author's Notes:

I hated the way the way the build up toward the reveal of who Jon really was just kind of fizzled out at the end. The commentaries suggested that this was the most incendiary knowledge that anyone in the Seven Kingdoms would hear and then pfffft. So this chapter was my way of addressing that to my own satisfaction.

I'll be away for a week beginning on Saturday and since this chapter was completed and edited, I thought I would post one more before I spend the next two nights packing and getting ready to leave for the (hopefully) sunny beach.

I have one more chapter completed (from Davos' point of view) but it is unedited. I'll post that upon my return from vacation. And another chapter that is mostly written, but not completed.

I know some of you are probably wondering "but where is Sansa?" She's on her way, I promise. As soon as the next two chapters are posted. I have tons of scribbled notes on my phone from her POV and from Jon's. None of them are in cohesive format yet. If I have time, I may start organizing them while I'm sitting on the beach.

Many thanks for the comments left. I truly enjoy hearing what you think or have to say about this story.


	6. Davos I

Davos

Inspired by his own words, Tyrion leaves them in search of a quill and parchment, the better to begin crafting the missive he intends to send throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Arya, ever restless, gathers their bowls and murmurs something about stretching her legs before wandering away, leaving Davos and his king to share a not altogether uncomfortable silence.

"You have been long away from your home." Jon stares towards the battered walls of the city as he begins to speak. "If you wish to return, I would not blame you."

Davos follows the other man's gaze toward the city walls. Though the smoke has stopped rising and the ash no longer falls, he cannot get the sounds and smells of the dragon queen's attack out of his mind and he knows it is the same for Jon. He recognizes the weight of guilt and self-recrimination which envelops the younger man, for he feels it himself. He had accompanied Jon to Dragonstone and had come to believe in Daenerys too. Hadn't he not even a moon's turn earlier advocated for a marriage between her and his king?

"If it's all the same with you, I'd like t'stay and help you put to right what happened here."

He smiles at the look of relief that crosses Jon's face and feels a surge of affection for the young man who has become much like a son to him.

"Grey Worm stopped by my tent first thing this morning," Jon says idly, eyes still trained on the city walls. "He spoke with the Dothraki as I asked. They've agreed to leave as soon as we can provide them with a ship and crew to take them back to Essos."

"Well they couldn't be allowed t'stay," Davos admits.

"They fought bravely in the North, lost more men than any of us and we owe them a great deal." Jon goes back to a conversation they'd had the previous evening. "But, no. They would never integrate with the Westerosi people and frankly, the citizens of King's Landing are already terrified enough by the presence of the Unsullied and our soldiers. We'll never achieve peace with the Dothraki here. It's not something they understand."

"I thought it'd be harder t'get them to agree to go," Davos murmurs. "I worried they'd want to avenge their queen."

Jon huffs out a bitter sounding laugh. "The Dothraki followed Daenerys because she could walk through fire and had three strong dragons. With the dragons gone, it seems her death means little to them." He shoots Davos a disbelieving look. "Grey Worm said they offered to fight for the 'king who rose from the dead'."

Davos watches Jon's chest expand as he draws in a deep breath and then deflate as he blows it back out on a long, unsteady exhale.

"Poor Daenerys," he whispers. "Betrayed at every turn, even in death."

Davos waits, watching as Jon struggles with his thoughts. "Was it right what I did?" His eyes dart from Davos' face to the troops milling about around them, to the ground beneath his feet, seemingly unable to focus on one thing for any length of time. "It doesn't feel right," he whispers.

Davos' heart clenches with compassion and he shifts in his seat to lay a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"I don't know, lad," he says. "But you did the only thing you could do in that moment. You did what was necessary." His grip tightens and he dips his head to capture Jon's gaze with his own.

"What she did here..." Jon shakes his head, still unbelieving of what had happened. "I don't even have the words..."

"Aye," Davos agrees. "It was barbaric and there's no condoning it. But I think something broke inside her," he says slowly as he sorts through his thoughts, trying to make sense of what happened. "They all look at her and see a monster," he muses jerking a chin toward the camp. "Your sisters and the lords of the North only saw a foreign invader bent on bringing them to heel. But you and I saw a different side of Daenerys on Dragonstone. We saw the queen she could have been."

"She was brave," Jon murmurs, remembering the thrilling sight of her appearing alone with only her dragons over the frozen lake north of the wall when all had seemed lost.

"Aye," Davos nods. "She had an inner light," he says. "And I believe she did have a desire t'do good in the world. I watched the two of you fall in love and I rejoiced in it. A just woman and an honorable man," he remembers and releases his breath on a long, sorrowful sigh. "But in the end she either allowed her demons to hold sway or she simply could no longer restrain them. And I believe – as you did - that she would not have stopped here."

He politely averts his gaze when he sees Jon swipe a knuckle across his damp lashes.

"If there had been more time," the former smuggler continues, "or if she had been willing to listen..." Agitated, he pushes to his feet and begins to pace in a tight circle.

"Or if I had listened to those who warned me." Jon rubs the heel of one hand against his forehead and rakes his fingers through his hair. "How can I rule wisely if I am so poor a judge of character?"

"Will y'look at me, lad?" Davos asks, ending his restless pacing and coming to a stop before the other man.

"You're human and you make mistakes just like the rest of us. Perhaps I'm making excuses for the part I played in all of this. But I cannot condemn you. Is it so very wrong to want to believe the best of the people we love?" he wonders. He drops back into his seat and leans forward, pushing his face close to Jon's.

"Daenerys allowed her desire for the throne to take precedence over the good of her people. The difference between you and she is that I have never known you to make a choice for selfish reasons. That is why I have stayed by your side. That is why I will remain at your side for as long as you need me. Perhaps I _am_ a poor judge of character but I'm willing to put my money on you."

Jon tilts his head to study the other man. "And just how much money have you got, Ser Davos?" he asks with a wry smile as Davos makes a production out of patting down his pockets to reveal a handful of copper pennies and a single silver coin.

"Not much, your Grace," he admits, drawing a rusty laugh from the young king. "So it should hold all the more weight that I'd still be ready to bet my last penny on you."

A/N: It's with a bit of trepidation that I post this chapter. I've come to realize that there is a fragment within the fandom that is very definitely either Team Sansa or Team Daenerys and never the twain shall meet. For some folks, it seems that it is almost a betrayal of one character to find anything positive to say about the other. But I don't buy into that. This show, these books, are populated by characters who are good, evil and every shade in between. Tyrion's words to Jon in the cell could have been directed solely to me alone, so closely did they speak to my own feelings. "Everywhere she goes, evil men die and we cheer her for it." I did. When she "bought" and freed the Unsullied and turned Drogon onto Kraznys and the slavers? I cheered. When she unleashed the Unsullied during the Battle of Meeren? I cheered. When she torched the Dothraki khals? I cheered. When she destroyed the scorpions mounted to the walls of King's Landing? When she burned down the Iron Fleet in the harbor outside of King's Landing? When she burst through the gates of King's Landing and soared out over the Golden Company? I cheered. And cheered. And cheered.

But when she turned Drogon on the people of King's Landing? I cried. I clapped my hands over my mouth and was quite literally talking to the television and begging her to stop.

I do not subscribe to the idea that in fiction – novels, movies, television or fanfiction – that one female character must be bad so that another female character can be good. There is a part of me that loves the character of Daenerys, just as a part of me loves the character of Sansa. And I believe that Jon could – at different times and different places in his life – have loved both of them.

I hope that you can respect where I'm coming from, even if you don't agree. And for those of you who are awaiting Sansa's appearance, all I can say is that, apparently, I've gone into slow burn mode as far as the Jon/Sansa pairing goes. I spent quite a bit of time sitting on the beach this past week, writing scenes – fragments and whole – in my head and scribbled onto paper – and each of them are scenes that feature Jon and Sansa. Once she shows up (in about two chapters) she will be one of the primary POV characters. I do, for the most part, know where I'm going, albeit slowly, with the two of them and with this story.

In the meantime, I enjoy reading your comments and I hope you'll stay with me for the journey.


	7. Jon IV

Jon

Jon summons Arya and Tyrion to return and sends one of his men to request that Grey Worm join them. Along with Davos, they will serve for now as his council.

"The first thing we need to do is to look for survivors," Jon says with a glance toward the other four who sit in a semicircle facing him. "The destruction is widespread so we will need to make sure that we cover as much ground as possible without overlapping." He shakes his head at the thought of the task ahead. "I wish we had a map."

Tyrion hops down from his seat and using his finger, begins to draw a loose diagram of the city in the dirt at the center of their circle. Davos hunches forward and helps him to fill in some of the details.

"We are hearing reports that this part of the city was largely spared," Tyrion comments as he points to an area to the north of the Red Keep. "The worst of the damage is here." He sweeps a hand over the sections of the city closest to the western gates, including the heavily populated streets near Visenya's Hill.

"We need to find people who can help with the injured. Ask around for maesters, midwives, healers... anyone who can stitch up a wound or set a broken bone. We need all the help we can get." Jon says. "Lord Tyrion, write to the Citadel. Have them urge maesters from around the kingdoms to travel to Kings Landing with all speed."

"At first glance, it appears that the towers of the Red Keep took the worst of the damage," Davos says. "But some of the lower levels of the palace are in relatively good condition."

"We need to determine what parts of it are habitable so that we can establish space for the wounded and shelter for those whose homes have been destroyed." Jon nods toward Tyrion to make sure he is making notes of all that needs to be done.

"Food may be a problem," Arya comments. "People are going to be hungry," she warns.

Jon nods. "Let's task someone with beginning to assess the city's food stores," Jon says. "Send someone to the granaries. Let's see if any of them survived the fires."

"Hungry people, frightened people are desperate people and capable of just about anything," Tyrion says in quiet warning.

"Set a guard around the granaries," Jon orders. "But once we determine how much food we have, we need to make a plan to distribute it."

"Jaime and I had time to talk when we were at Winterfell," Tyrion notes. "He told me that when his troops captured Highgarden, they took all of the Tyrell gold, emptied the granaries and raided the nearby farms to gather the harvest.

Davos leans forward. "Any idea how much gold they took?" His gaze sharpens. "We'll need it if we're to have any hope of getting this city back on its feet."

Tyrion shakes his head.

"Cersei used the gold to pay off House Lannister's massive debt to the Iron Bank."

"What about the harvest?" Arya asks. "If the city granaries did survive the attack, there might be enough there to tide us over until we can make arrangements to bring in more supplies."

"Jaime said the wagons that carried the stores of Highgarden's granaries did make it back to King's Landing along with a third of the crops harvested. Unfortunately, Daenerys destroyed the lion's share of the wagons hauling the bulk of the yield from the harvest when she attacked the Lannister army on their way back to King's Landing," Tyrion admits.

"Wonderful." Jon pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and tries to think around the headache brewing behind his eyes. "Alright." He pushes himself to his feet. "First things first. We need to focus on survivors, shelter, medical aid and food."

"The population of the city has been decimated," Tyrion comments. "I'm afraid there won't be many survivors among those who were in the dragon's path."

They all pause to absorb the implications of his words. Jon shakes his head violently as if to clear it and then rises to his feet.

"Grey Worm," he turns to the Unsullied leader. "How many of your men speak the common language?"

The other man pauses to consider the surviving members of his officer corps. "Eight," he muses. "Maybe ten. Missendei was teaching them," he says with a sad smile.

"We have fought alongside each other," Jon says slowly, "but we've never worked together. We should integrate our troops. The Northmen will be better able to communicate with the survivors."

Grey Worm nods in agreement.

"Summon your officers," Jon continues. "Davos, do the same with ours. We'll divide the men into an even mix of Northmen and Unsullied." He looks around and sees the others bobbing their heads in agreement.

"The wounded should be brought out of the city through the lion's gate. Another detail will be formed to begin removing the dead from the city and to build funeral pyres."

"Burning the dead is not the way of the people of King's Landing," Tyrion cautions.

"There are too many to bury," Jon counters. If he had his way, he would outlaw burial in all seven kingdoms lest the army of the dead rise again someday in the future. He paces back and forth as he gathers his thoughts. "We will make the people understand that this must be the way for now and those soldiers tasked with removing the dead from within the city must be careful to treat the bodies with respect."

"You'll need soldiers in the streets to keep the peace," Arya says pragmatically.

"Aye," Jon agrees reluctantly. "But they are to be instructed to keep their weapons sheathed unless it is absolutely necessary to draw them. The people are rightly traumatized and frightened by the sight of soldiers in their streets," he adds.

"Grey Worm." Jon turns to face the Unsullied leader. "I would like for the two of us to lead one of the groups. It is important that our men see us working together. It is important that the people of King's Landing see us helping to restore the city."

"I will work with you, Jon Snow," the other man responds quietly. "I welcome the opportunity to fix what we have destroyed."

Jon nods and looks to the others.

"Then let's get started."

0o0o0o0

At the break of dawn over the next few mornings, the Northern Army and the Unsullied fan out into the damaged streets of King's Landing. While half the men begin the gruesome task of loading the bodies of the dead onto wagons for transportation out of the city, the other half begin the slow process of looking for survivors. Many who had survived are found wandering – dazed and haunted – through the streets, and they, along with the wounded, are herded toward the shelter provided by the undamaged portions of the Red Keep.

Tyrion's prediction that not many survivors would be found beneath the rubble is heart-breakingly accurate but every once in a while a cry goes up as someone is pulled alive from the wreckage of their homes or shops.

Jon and Grey Worm carefully crawl over the rubble of a collapsed home near the Red Keep, lifting debris and passing it into the waiting hands of the rest of their team. People who were lucky enough to have lived in the portion of the city mostly untouched by Daenerys' ire cautiously begin to venture out of their homes. Arya, having appointed herself as Jon's personal guard stands nearby, alert eyes scanning the small crowd of onlookers who have gathered about to watch the rescue effort.

Jon signals for a break and the men gratefully collapse where they are. He pulls a waterskin from his belt and guzzles from it before passing it to a waiting Grey Worm.

"It has been many, many hours since we have found anyone alive, Jon Snow." The Unsullied leader takes a long drink and hands the skin back.

"I know," Jon replies, pouring some water into his hand and swiping it over his grimy face. "It's been nearly four days since the attack." He glances toward the sky and the growing cloud cover. More snow is on the way. "At this point, I doubt we will find many more who have survived."

"It is good that we were able to move those who were not trapped into shelter," Grey Worm comments as he too looks towards the threatening clouds overhead.

"We'll keep at it until it gets dark," Jon says, capping the skin and hooking it back to his belt. Crawling down from the top of the wreckage, he ties a scrap of fabric to a long stick and jams it into the rubble, signaling to other teams that this location had already been searched.

They move onto the next building and begin the process all over again, cautiously scrambling over the wreckage of a partially collapsed home. Jon heaves up a chunk of stone and hands it to Grey Worm who passes it along the human chain of men.

"Hello," he calls when enough debris has been moved to allow him to see into the damaged remains of the building. "Can anyone hear me?" Everyone quiets at the sound of his voice, ears straining for a response. Again and again he calls out as they work to widen the opening so that someone can crawl inside to take a look around. Ducking down, he peers into the opening and freezes when he catches a shadow of movement.

"Quiet!" he hisses over his shoulder. Carefully lifting another stone out of the way, he cautiously eases his head and shoulders through the opening to find a boy, no more than seven years of age peering out from behind an overturned table.

"Hello," Jon says in a gentle voice. "Please. Don't be frightened, I'm here to help."

The child gives a violent shake of his head. "I'm fine," he tells Jon in a defiant voice. "I don't need your help."

Jon begins to ease his way further through the opening but the boy scrambles back, terror etched across his features. "Is anyone in there with you?" Jon asks, holding up his hands in a non-threatening manner.

"N—no," the child stammers. "I'm alone."

"I'm Jon. Can you tell me your name?"

The child draws his knees up to his chest and hides his face behind them, refusing to answer.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to talk. Won't you please tell me your name?"

Long seconds drag out as the boy continues to refuse any response, and then,

"He's Will," pipes a voice from behind the table and the boy lets out a frustrated groan.

"Rosie," he hisses. "I told you to be quiet."

A tuft of blonde hair appears from behind the table and then a pair of wide, blue eyes blink at him from behind the boy's shoulder.

"Hello, Rosie." Jon shifts so that he is sitting on the ground, his legs curled comfortably before him. "I'm Jon. Are you Will's sister?"

The little girl nods and plops onto the floor next to her brother and stuffs dirty fingers into her mouth.

"How old are you?" Jon asks, smiling when she pulls four slimy fingers from her mouth and holds them up.

"Four?" His voice instinctively takes on the sing-song tone he used with his younger siblings when they were very little. "I have two little sisters," he says in a confidential voice. "Would you like to meet one of them?"

He twists his torso and calls out for Arya who quickly scrambles into place at his side. She props her chin on his shoulder and peers into the dim interior of the home.

"Who are your friends?" she asks as she waggles her fingers in a greeting to the two children.

"This is Will and his sister, Rosie."

"Hello, Will. Hello Rosie. I'm Arya." She settles on the ground and tucks herself under Jon's arm. "It's going to snow soon," she says. "Don't you want to go somewhere warm?"

"No," Will says, glaring at them suspiciously. "We'll be fine here."

"Will," Jon turns a serious gaze toward the boy. "I know it's your job to protect your sister. But it's not safe for her to stay here."

"Will, you need to listen to Jon," Arya tells him. "He's my older brother and he would never let me stay somewhere that wasn't safe. You have to do the same for Rosie."

Tears of indecision rising in his eyes, Will curls a protective arm around his sister, unconsciously mimicking Jon and Arya.

"We have food," Jon tells him. "And a warm, safe place for you to sleep."

A loose stone shifts along the wall near where Jon and Arya sit and a small shower of debris falls to the floor, kicking up a cloud of dust. Everyone holds their breath for several long seconds and then Jon stretches out a hand.

"Please come out," he implores.

"Mama is hurt," the boy finally whispers.

"Where is she?" Arya asks.

The children shift to one side and Jon and Arya can see a woman's body on the floor behind the overturned table. Jon carefully pushes his way into the house and crawls across the floor to where the children are huddled over their unconscious mother. He touches his fingers to the pulse in her throat and twists his head toward Arya.

"She's alive."

He hears Arya call for help.

"We're going to get all of you out of here," he promises as he leads the children toward the opening in the wall. He lifts Rosie through the opening into Arya's waiting arms and then crawling out himself, he hefts Will out. They wait, and as the children's mother is brought out and placed on a litter, a cheer erupts from the soldiers and the small crowd gathered around.

0o0o0o

The young king grasps the boy's hand in his own and offers a reassuring smile to him and to the little girl perched on his sister's hip. He slings one arm around his sister's shoulder and as they set off to follow the stretcher carrying the children's mother to the infirmary, a number of people who had lived through the last Targaryen reign remember Rhaegar and all the hope and promise the realm had seen in the silver prince. Though Jon Snow bears the striking dark features of the Starks, those who remember Rhaegar see glimpses of him in his son's melancholy smile and gentle manner.

And so the whispers begin.

TBC

A/N: A little dull maybe with the chore of starting to set things to right in Kings Landing, but it seems to me that if Jon is going to be a good king, he needs to be seen tending to his people. And Jon being Jon, well, it strikes me that the he's going to be highly motivated by a sense of guilt for what he sees as his own part in the destruction of the city. I simply cannot imagine him sitting upon a throne somewhere giving orders and not getting his own hands dirty.

R+L=J was set up to be such an important thread in GOT and this story is partially an attempt to bring the promise of Jon's heritage into play and to give it the significance that fizzled away to nothing by the end of the series.

Ned Stark obviously was the person most responsible for molding Jon into the man he became. Jon has Ned's qualities – good and bad – in abundance. Outwardly, he is all Stark in looks, as well as his sense of honor and duty. But if anyone was going to see hints of Rhaegar in Jon, it would be the people of King's Landing who had been alive when Rhaegar was the crown prince and who would remember him, as I understand it, as gentle and somewhat melancholy.

Thanks, as always, to everyone who is reading this, bookmarking it, commenting on it or leaving kudos. I have enjoyed reading what you have to say. Writing is a fun hobby but it's nice to know that my scribbles aren't going out into a vacuum and disappearing from existence.

I actually have roughed out the very last scene of this story – but could not begin to say how many chapters will be written between now and then. I tend to jot things down as they come to mind so I have many scenes written – some just scraps of words, others more fully fleshed out.


	8. Tyrion II

Tyrion

The euphoria after finding the children and their mother alive was short-lived as with each passing day only the dead are pulled from the rubble. The funeral pyres which had burned constantly for days and nights on end are now, mercifully, for the most part, extinguished.

The days have grown shorter as winter has settled in and Tyrion finds himself caught up in the throng of Northern soldiers and Unsullied making their way back to their encampments for the night. He pushes through the crowds in search of the king whom he finds, as always, in the company of Grey Worm. The two men have become inseparable, working themselves to the bone in an effort to assuage the guilt and drown the grief that threatens to consume them both.

"Your Grace." He draws Jon's attention and the younger man heaves the stone in his hands into the back of a wagon waiting to haul away the mountains of debris scattered over the city's streets.

"Tyrion." Dusting his hands off on his jerkin, he moves towards the smaller man.

"I have news, your Grace. If you are soon to be making your way back to camp, perhaps I can accompany you so that we may discuss it in private?"

Jon acquiesces with a nod. He exchanges a few words with Grey Worm, clapping a hand on the other man's shoulder in farewell. Arya, ever present, immediately falls into step at her brother's side and the siblings join Tyrion. The threesome find Davos on their way toward the gates and their progress is made maddeningly slow as Jon is stopped time and again by his men and even once or twice by one of the smallfolk brave enough to approach with a question.

"You're going to have to convince him to set aside a day each week to hear petitions," Tyrion murmurs to Davos. "Else he'll be constantly besieged as he is now."

Arya snorts out a soft laugh.

"It _is_ the traditional manner in which kings have heard their people," Tyrion huffs, affront evident in his tone.

Davos holds up a calming hand. "I think, my Lord Tyrion that you will find our king is not going to do much of anything in the _traditional manner _of other kings."

Tyrion grunts and nods.

"I see His Grace's shadows have returned," Davos comments idly.

"They showed up a couple of hours ago," Arya responds.

"I beg your pardon," Tyrion interrupts. "But what are you talking about?"

Arya tips her head to the right and Tyrion glances over to see a group of young boys hovering nearby, whispering amongst themselves and jostling one another.

"They started showing up a handful of days ago," Davos says. "They follow Jon wherever he goes."

Tyrion's instinct at hearing the king is being stalked is to show alarm, but he decides if Jon's fiercely protective sister is not concerned, he will not be either. From the corner of his eye, he sees the rough-housing amongst the boys increase and then suddenly, one lad stumbles out of the group, pushed forward by his friends. The boy throws a frightened look back toward the snickering group and then, feigning bravery, he stuffs his hands into his pockets and saunters toward the king's party.

"Is he really the king?" the boy asks, jerking his chin toward Jon who is in earnest conversation with one of his captains and seemingly oblivious of the goings-on around him.

"He is indeed," Tyrion says.

"He don't look much like a king t'me," the youngster says.

"And what does a king look like?" Arya asks with a raised brow.

"My older sister says kings and queens all have golden hair and gold clothes, but their eyes are scary and their smiles are mean!"

Tyrion winces at the frighteningly accurate description of Cersei and Joffrey.

"But him," the boy says, pointing toward Jon. "His face is all scarred and he's got dirt under his fingernails. He don't wear a crown and he ain't scary-looking. He looks kinda sad. Like most everyone else around here."

"Indeed," Tyrion murmurs again.

Jon finishes his conversation and turns toward them. Spotting the young boy standing with the others, he steps towards them.

"My Lord Tyrion," he says as he approaches. "Who is your young friend?"

"I'm afraid I haven't yet had the pleasure of learning his name, Your Grace." He looks into the boy's eyes. "Well, lad?" he prompts.

The child's eyes have widened to a comical degree as he stares up into the king's face. "I'm, uh... I'm..." He draws in a deep breath. "I'm Owen." His eyes narrow for a moment and then, "Do you really have a white wolf?"

"I do," Jon says. "His name is Ghost and his fur is as white as snow."

"Is that..." Owen stretches out a hand toward Jon. "Is that him?" he asks pointing to Longclaw's pommel.

Jon nods and moves his arm back to allow the child a better look. "It is. Would you like to see it?"

Tyrion smiles when the boy sucks in an eager gasp and nods frantically as Jon pulls the sword from its scabbard and lays it across the palms of his hands. The lad tosses a look over his shoulder toward his stunned friends and then tentatively reaches out with one finger to trace the outline of the white wolf's head.

"Where's the real Ghost?" he asks as his finger smooths over the wolf's garnet eye.

"I left him in the North," Jon replies, his lips turning downward for a moment. "The South is too warm for a direwolf."

"Too warm?" the boy exclaims and kicks at the snow near his feet. "It's freezing here and there's snow all over the ground."

"Not compared to the North," Arya says as she moves to lean into her brother's side. "In the North there are snowdrifts taller than most men."

Owen scoffs in disbelief.

"It's getting dark," Jon smiles at the boy. "Do you and your friends have a place to sleep?" he asks. "Enough to eat?"

The boy nods, adulation clear in his expression as he gazes up into the king's kind eyes. "Yessir," he mumbles.

"Then you best be getting along." Jon ruffles the boy's hair and sends him on his way.

Tyrion searches in his pocket for a coin. "Owen," he calls and flips the coin toward the lad who deftly catches it in one hand, the copper glinting in the waning daylight.

Owen reaches his friends who fall on him as if he was a hero returning from war and Tyrion realizes that Davos is right. Jon is never going to rule like other kings – sitting distant and entitled upon a towering throne. His willingness to use his own hands to help the city recover puts him in stark contrast to the lazy and wasteful Robert Baratheon and his kind eyes and sad smile are a far cry from the glittering malice of the likes of Joffrey and Cersei.

Instead, Tyrion realizes that having been raised a bastard, Jon does not see himself as elevated above his people, and his natural inclination to serve rather than to be served is endearing him to a growing number of the ordinary citizens of Kings Landing.

They have not yet heard back from the lords of the different kingdoms in response to the missives Tyrion sent throughout the realm, but he knows that a king who has the love and loyalty of the masses is a king who has a firm grip on his throne.

They continue unimpeded toward the encampment whereupon arriving, the men split into different directions. Knowing how soldiers behave when they are off duty, Jon has issued strict orders that none of his men are to enter the city after dark. Guards are placed at all gates to discourage anyone from disobeying his order and in response, enterprising business people from the regions near King's Landing have traveled to set up their trades. A small tent city has cropped up near the Northern camp housing makeshift laundries, brothels, taverns and bathhouses. Music and raucous laughter can be heard spilling forth from the taverns and more than one man disappears into the perfumed interiors of the brothels.

Tyrion sees a number of Unsullied sprinkled throughout the Northern camp. They do not partake of the pleasures to be found in the taverns or brothels, but over the weeks of working together, friendships have begun to crop up among some of the Unsullied and their Northern counterparts and he sees some sitting around the many campfires sharing a meal with their Northern brethren. He grins to see the stoic and unchanging expressions on the faces of two Unsullied who stare across the playing cards in their hands toward a couple of Winterfellian soldiers who earnestly try to explain the rules of the game to their newfound comrades.

They arrive at the king's tent and Tyrion settles near the campfire while Jon ducks inside, returning a few moments later in fresh clothes, his cheeks ruddy and beard glistening from the cold water he had used to quickly wash away the worst of the day's grime. The sun has disappeared and Tyrion huddles within his furs, inching his stool closer to the fire, gratefully accepting the bowl of stew that is handed to him by the young man who has been appointed to serve as Jon's squire.

He dips his spoon into the bowl, surprised to find that the meal actually has a somewhat pleasing taste. Thick with barley and gravy, he counts two good sized chunks of venison along with a few potatoes and onions. The king and his party eat quietly, savoring the warmth of the meal after another long and exhausting day.

Jon sops up the last bit of gravy from the bowl with a hunk of bread and pops it into his mouth before setting the bowl on the ground near his feet.

"You had news, my lord?" he asks as Tyrion finishes his own meal. The smaller man nods and slides down from his seat to reach for a pitcher of ale that sits on a nearby table. Hefting the pitcher in one hand he looks towards his companions, pouring a small measure of ale into the waiting tankards and handing them out. He drinks half of his own while he stands there and then tops off his cup before returning to his seat to slowly savor the rest. Ale, like everything else in the camp, is strictly rationed and he knows if he wants more, he will have to take himself and his coin to one of the two tents housing the makeshift taverns.

"As you know, I found Cersei's solar to be in surprisingly good condition," Tyrion says as he settles himself more comfortably within his fur cloak. "Most of the damage to the room was superficial – items that fell from the walls or tables during the siege."

"Aye," Jon grunts impatiently and shoots the other man a look that silently urges him to quickly get to the point.

"I was poking through her desk when I came across a key – rather ornate and tucked away in a hidden compartment in one of the drawers. I've spent the last two days tearing her solar apart, testing the key in every lock I could find and today I struck gold."

He smirks, enjoying the private joke as he elaborates.

"I mean that quite literally," he says. "Secreted behind a rather frighteningly accurate portrait of young Joffrey was a safe built into the wall. And inside the safe..."

"Gold," Davos grunts. "How much?"

"Gold," Tyrion grins. "A fair amount."

"I thought you said that Cersei had used the Tyrell gold to pay off House Lannister's debt to the Iron Bank." Jon interrupts.

"She did. And apparently immediately upon paying off the Lannister debt, she secured a new loan from the Iron Bank to purchase the services of the Golden Company."

"For all the good it did her," Davos snorts softly as he remembers the quick and ruthless decimation of the famed company of sellswords before the gates of Kings Landing.

"Indeed," Tyrion agrees. "It seems that she had the Iron Bank immediately transfer half of the borrowed funds into the Golden Company's account as a down payment and she maintained the balance of the funds in the safe behind Joffrey's portrait."

"She kept all that gold here? In a city she knew would be facing Daenerys and her dragons?" Arya asks incredulously.

"Cersei always believed the Red Keep was invincible," Tyrion says. "She often said there was no place safer than within its walls." He sighs and stares downward, as ever at odds with his emotions when it comes to his sister. He had loathed her, had actively worked toward her defeat and yet he is stunned to find that a part of him mourns her passing. He shakes his head to clear it and raises his gaze back to the others.

"In any event, there are stacks of gold coins tucked safely away in her solar. I see no reason why we cannot use it for our own needs now."

"And how will we find the funds to repay the Iron Bank?" Jon asks.

"We need the money, Your Grace," Davos begins. "If we're t'have any hope of getting this city back on its feet..." He locks his gaze on Jon's. "I know you don't like it, but we need the money now. Figuring out how to pay the Iron Bank back is a question for another day."

Jon blows out a long breath and nods in reluctant agreement.

"I'd like to point out a couple of things," Tyrion drawls, pulling the group's attention back to himself. "The first is that it is Cersei's name on the loan document. The debt is hers and died with her."

"Not if we use the money ourselves – "

"Pardon me, Your Grace, but if you would be good enough to hear me out," Tyrion requests, continuing when Jon nods. "The Iron Bank would not necessarily need to know that the gold survived the destruction of the Red Keep..."

Tyrion sees a smile flirting around the corners of Davos' mouth and Arya's eyes widen in appreciation of his words. It is only Jon who is shaking his head in disagreement. Tyrion feels a flash of irritation. He is not used to dealing with a monarch with so rigid a sense of morality. He opens his mouth to further his argument but pauses when Arya speaks first.

"Jon." Hands braced on her knees, the Stark girl leans toward her brother, an earnest expression on her face. "Every day the city's granaries empty a little more. It won't be long before we run out of food and then we're going to have to start buying it from somewhere else," she points out reasonably.

"And we'll need money – not just for food, but for materials and manpower to rebuild the city," Davos chimes in.

"While there is a good deal of money, it won't be enough for all our needs," Tyrion cautions. "But it's a start."

"And won't the Iron Bank be suspicious of where I – a man raised as a bastard with no lands of my own – a man formerly of the Night's Watch – came by enough gold to feed and rebuild a city?" Jon asks.

"Of course, they will suspect," Tyrion murmurs in response. "But they could not possibly prove that the funds came from their loan to Cersei. How could they?"

"I don't like it," Jon stares at his sister. "Father..." he stumbles over his words as he thinks of the man who raised him. "That is, your father would not approve," he says.

"He wouldn't," she agrees. "But Jon, what else can we do?"

Tyrion watches as Jon's head drops forward, his chin resting against his chest as he struggles with the decision.

"Each lie builds on another," Jon says. "Every concession makes it easier to forfeit the truth the next time. Until all truth and honor is compromised beyond recognition."

"Jon," Tyrion leans forward, his face bathed in the light of the fire that separates him from the young monarch. "You cannot rule a kingdom as large and far-flung as this without compromise."

"I will not bargain away my honor." Jon pushes to his feet and Tyrion cranes his head back as the younger man looms over him.

"I will agree not to reach out to the Iron Bank to inform them of your discovery today. But if they come knocking upon our door asking about their money, I will not lie to them – and neither will you on my behalf."

Knowing he will not get a better deal, Tyrion nods in agreement.

"In which case, you best start thinking of a way that we can pay them back if they do come calling." Jon shoots a look at his small group of advisors and stalks off.

"I fear for him." Ignoring the rationing order, Tyrion pours a healthy measure of ale into his empty cup. "He is too good-hearted to be king. Others will take advantage or use his honor against him." He takes a long draught from his cup and looks towards Arya.

"Can you not talk some sense into him?"

"And say what?" she shoots back. "Ask him to be someone other than himself? Someone like Robert Baratheon? Or Cersei? Or Daenerys?" She shakes her head. "No."

"He never wanted to be king in the first place," Davos comments. "Asking him to abandon his honor now is too high a price. Better to set him free and allow him to return home."

"And then what happens to the realm?" Tyrion wonders despairingly.

"Jon Snow is nothing without his honor," Davos says quietly. "It is what makes men want to follow him. It's what makes me want to follow him."

"He's strong," Arya murmurs. "And he has us to protect him."

Tyrion drains his cup and stares into its empty depths.

"I hope we are enough," he whispers. "For the realm cannot take any more upheaval."

TBC

A/N: I'm so grateful for the manner in which this story is being received by you, the readers. And while I have a clear path in mind as to how the story will progress, I am fascinated by and enjoying the various comments and suggestions some of you have made along the way. This was another chapter presenting some of the mundane problems that might crop up in the aftermath of the destruction of Kings Landing but I thought it important enough to include and hopefully not in a dry and dull manner.

Next chapter will be from Sansa's POV.

There are a number of readers who have commented that they have trouble imagining how Jon and Sansa move forward given all that has happened between them. It's a fair observation. I respect it and I can say assuredly that it is something that I considered from the outset and which I am carefully waded through as the characters reconnect in future chapters. My only response is that I do have a plot line in mind and I guess... either I am a capable enough writer to make a reader accept my premise... or I'm not. Of course, I hope you'll all stick around for the ride.

Thanks again to everyone who is reading, commenting, bookmarking or leaving a kudos. I know pretty much every writer says it, but all of that is important from the perspective of putting something creative out into the world and knowing that it's being seen by others. I appreciate your commentary.


	9. Sansa I

Notes: In some ways this has been the easiest and most difficult chapter to write. Easy, because I've been mapping it out, scribbling dialogue and internal monologues for this chapter since before I wrote anything else. The words just spilled out of me and, as a result, it's the longest chapter so far. Practically two or even three times as long as some prior chapters. Difficult because I wanted to get the balance right. Even in the best of times, Jon and Sansa tend not to be on the same page in their approach to things. A great deal has happened since the last time Jon and Sansa breathed the same air and they have to deal with the fallout. I ask only that you stick with the chapter through to its end before you judge. These kids have a lot to talk about!

0o0o0

Sansa

_"There's snow on the ground here, but it's nothing like home. I hate this place. So does Jon, though he never says anything. This is where he'll live and maybe he's just trying to make the best of it. I worry he's working himself into an early grave. There are times when I have to bully him into stopping what he's doing long enough to eat something, or browbeat him into getting a few hours of sleep. _

_I don't know what to do, Sansa. I suggested to Jon that we send for you, but he said no. That you had quite enough of Kings Landing and its horrors and, of course, he's correct. Write to me anyway. I miss your voice. Give Bran my love – and if you have any suggestions as to how to deal with our older brother, I would be happy to hear them. – Arya"_

Sansa sets aside Arya's letter and though she practically has it memorized at this point, she pulls Tyrion's missive proclaiming Jon's heritage to all of the known world from her desk drawer to read again. Each word was carefully crafted by her former husband to maximize its impact and to erase any doubt as to Jon's rightful claim to the throne of the Seven Kingdoms.

It reads like one of the songs she had loved so as a girl. Romantic. Tragic. Heroic. Star-crossed lovers. A secret marriage. A prince disguised as a bastard, hidden away until he rose to power to save the world from those who would seek to destroy it. She thinks of the boy she grew up with – his brooding presence banished to a lower table lest he shine a light on the stain he brought to House Stark's honor. She imagines that had she known the truth of him then, she and her friends would have fluttered about, sighing and swooning over the tragic melodrama of it all rather than allowing him to fade into the background of her life.

She sets down Tyrion's scroll and leans back in her chair. Closing her eyes, she thinks of the girl she had been before she left her home all those years ago for Kings Landing. Tries to remember a time in her life before worry consumed her every waking moment. For so long she has been focused on the North. On rebuilding it. On solidifying her family's grip on power in the North, for she knows that in that power lies the key to true safety and security for the Starks.

Now, she thinks of Jon on the throne in the South and of what it means for the North.

Jon writes too. Occasional notes inquiring about the status of the repairs to Winterfell. Asking of the North and its people and how they fare now that winter has tightened its grip. The formality of his words and the grooves etched into the parchment by his heavy-handed use of quill and ink is evidence to her of the distance he seems determined to establish between them and the anger she imagines he harbors against her. And yet, each note ends with a postscript, obviously hurriedly added before he sends it winging North, wherein he inquires as to her health and Bran's, or expresses his hope that they are well and safe and happy, and she knows his brotherly instinct to protect is stronger than any distrust that may exist between them.

She sighs and opens her eyes. Lost in her thoughts, she stares into the fire until a noise in the hall outside her solar captures her attention. She looks up to see Brienne usher Bran through the door. She rises and joins her brother near the fire, handing him Arya's most recent letter.

"You should go," he tells her as he skims over Arya's words.

"To Kings Landing?" she protests with a disbelieving laugh. "What of the North? What of Winterfell?"

"I am here," he tells her. "I can look after things."

"But... you... you're..." She gestures towards him with a wildly flapping hand as if her flailing gesture could accurately convey the changes the years had wrought in her younger brother.

"I am still a Stark of Winterfell," he says. "Am I not?" The faintest glimmer of a smile plays about his lips.

She lowers her hands, folding them neatly in her lap and considers the young man seated across from her. In truth, she has recently begun to see glimpses of the boy she remembered from their childhoods. It is as if the death of the Night King has released him in some small way, occasionally allowing Bran to peek out from behind the Three Eyed Raven. She thinks with sadness that he will never be the boy she once knew but then reminds herself that the horrors of the intervening years have changed them all almost beyond recognition. Perhaps with peace they can find their back to some semblance of the people they once were.

"I have responsibilities here," she says. "What would I even do there?"

"I would not think less of you if you choose not to go. You have ample reason never to set foot south of the Neck again," he says. "But you could be of great help."

"I don't think Jon wants me around," she murmurs. The fingers she knots tightly together in her lap are the only outward sign of her inner turmoil.

"Perhaps not at first," Bran says and she flinches to know that he agrees with her. Wonders if it's something he has seen in his visions. "But he will need you, Sansa. You should go."

0o0o0o0

Sansa hears the familiar Northern burr of Jon's voice speaking with someone outside of his tent. Nerves fluttering in her stomach, she reaches out and grasps Arya's hand in hers and wishes suddenly that she had not kept her plans to travel to Kings Landing from him. Knowing without a doubt that he would have told her to stay at Winterfell, she had traveled without sending word to either Jon or Arya, suffering Brienne's disapproving frowns all the way.

When she was but a two days' ride from the city, she had sent a rider ahead with a note addressed to Arya, begging for her discretion. Now, seconds from facing Jon for the first time in months, she can only imagine his reaction upon finding her in camp.

He pushes his way into the tent, muttering to himself while brushing a dusting of snow from his hair and tunic. His murmured words trail off when he catches sight of her and he staggers to a halt, shock painted across his features.

"Sansa –"

"Hello, Jon." Features schooled into a placid expression, she rises to her feet. "It's so good to see you." She offers him a hopeful smile and moves toward him. Her smile fades when he takes a hurried step back to maintain the gap between them.

"I... why..." His eyes widening, he stares at her with growing agitation. "Is all well at home?" he asks, his gaze roving over her face anxiously. "Bran? Winterfell?"

"Everything is fine," she rushes to reassure him. "Bran is fine. The repairs are underway."

"Then..." He shakes his head. "I do not understand. If you are here, who is overseeing everything there?"

"Bran – "

"Bran?" he exclaims, throwing his hands into the air. "Bran is..."

"Fine," Sansa interrupts. "Bran is fine. Bran is... coming back. Bit by bit, he's a little more our Bran every day." She nods her head reassuringly when she sees hopeful tears rise in Jon's eyes and rubs a soothing hand over Arya's back. "Besides, Sam is with him. He'll help."

"Sam? He's still at Winterfell?" Jon asks with surprise. "I thought he would have been well on his way to his mother and sister by now."

"Gilly is due to give birth to their child very soon and he did not want to risk traveling through the snows with her and Little Sam. It's been wonderful having him at Winterfell."

"Aye," Jon's expression lightens for a moment. "That's Sam. He's a good friend to have around." A frown crosses his face. "But I still don't understand, Sansa. Whatever possessed you to travel all this way? What were you thinking? The roads are dangerous –"

_Because I hoped you needed me,_ she wants to say. _Because I thought you could use my help."_

Instead she says "Because we're family."

She wishes, desperately, to call the words back the moment they leave her mouth. Jon lets out a startled laugh – a bitter, disbelieving sound. Her words – an unconscious echo of his own in the godswood during that last fateful gathering of the remaining Stark siblings – ring out between them, and his hands twitch into fists at his sides.

Sansa sees his mouth move as he silently repeats the word 'family' before drawing in a shaky breath.

"Aye," he agrees. His gaze darts about the tent as he refuses to make eye contact with her or Arya. "I'm afraid we are not equipped for visitors," he says, his voice taking on an oddly formal tone. "We're using the habitable parts of the Red Keep as shelter for those who lost their homes. You will have to stay in camp with us until you go back," he tells her. His tone leaves no doubt that he intends to send her back North as soon as possible.

"It won't be the first time I've done so," she murmurs, reminding him of the nights leading up to the battle to oust the Boltons from Winterfell.

"Soldiers can be rough-mannered. A military camp is no place for a lady," he says then glances at Arya. "No offense intended," he adds quickly.

"None taken." Sansa sees Arya's mouth move into a grin meant to ease the mood. "I keep reminding you I'm no lady."

"I'll... um..." Jon crosses his arms over his chest and then drops them back to his side as if he doesn't know what to do with them. "I'll go speak with Davos and make arrangements for your lodging." He rubs the heel of his hand over his brow as if to push away a headache and then raises his head. "I have to go," he says abruptly. "Grey Worm and our men are waiting for... they're waiting..." He stares at her, his eyes dark and expressionless. "We'll talk later," he says before pushing his way through the tent flap and disappearing.

"I'm not sure if that was a promise or a threat," Sansa says with a wide-eyed look at her sister. "That could have gone better," she sighs, dropping back into her seat and drawing a sarcastic bark of laughter from Arya.

"That's one way of putting it." Arya grunts. "But he's right. The two of you do need to talk."

0o0o0o0

It doesn't take Sansa long to realize that despite what he said, Jon clearly intends to avoid talking with her as long as possible. He leaves camp early in the mornings and does not arrive back until almost dark. She takes her meals with him, gathered around his camp fire with Arya, Tyrion and Davos and he excuses himself the moment Tyrion and Davos drift away rather than allow himself to be caught alone with Arya and Sansa.

On her third day in camp, she settles herself in his tent to await his return. She finds one of his jerkins tossed on his bed in need of mending and so she keeps herself busy using a heavy needle to punch through the leather, repairing the tear along one seam and tightening the buttons.

She lays her work across her lap when he ducks through the tent flap, meeting his startled expression with a serene look.

"You said we would talk later," she reminds him. "It's been three days."

He glances over his shoulder as if gauging his chance of escape before nodding and collapsing onto the foot of his bed with a heavy sigh.

"What's this?" he asks fingering a neatly folded pile of clothing lying on his pillow.

"I brought some of your and Arya's things," she tells him. "You didn't take much with you when you left."

"I didn't think I'd need much," he admits, absently toying with the sleeve of one tunic and she wonders if he means that he didn't expect to survive the confrontation with Cersei's troops or if he had hoped to quickly return to Winterfell once Daenerys had secured the throne.

An awkward silence falls over them as neither seems willing to be the first to speak.

"Ask me," she finally says.

"What?" He stares at the muddy toes of his boots, stubbornly refusing to look at her.

"Ask me what you want to know."

Long moments pass and still he says nothing.

"Ask me," she murmurs. "We cannot move past it until you do."

He looks up then and she sees resentment flash in his eyes.

"What makes you think I want to move past it?" he asks.

"Jon," she whispers, not recognizing the hard and unforgiving man seated before her and she swallows thickly, willing away the tears that threaten. "Please. Jon."

His shoulders rise and fall on a shuddering breath before he finally speaks.

"What... what did you hope to accomplish by telling Tyrion after promising not to speak of it to anyone?" He stares at her and the expression on his face is that of a man who is hopelessly lost. "You must not have thought on it for long," he ponders aloud. "No more than a few hours could have passed between the time we left the godswood and the time you spoke with Tyrion."

Sansa has always known that some form of this question would be his first. Why. He is so like her father. Everything is black and white in his world and he simply cannot see the shades of gray in between.

"I told Tyrion because I wanted him to know there was a better option."

"Why?"

She blinks in surprise. "What do you mean, 'why'?" she asks incredulously, sweeping an arm outward as if pointing to the decimated city beyond the canvas walls of the tent. "After all that has happened, do you really need to ask that?"

He arches a brow. "Truly?" he scoffs. "Did you tell Tyrion about me because you worried Daenerys would reduce Kings Landing to ash? Was that honestly your concern at the time?"

She deflates. "No," she shakes her head. "I knew Tyrion was afraid of her. I suspected that she could act impulsively when she lost her patience. And you only had to see her on that monstrous creature to fear it was possible, but no. I... I didn't tell Tyrion about you because I was worried about what Daenerys would do here. My concern was for what would happen after. I knew she would lay claim to the North if she took the throne and I did not want to allow that to happen."

She heaves out a long breath. "So I told Tyrion and I hoped that he and Varys would support your claim over hers."

"Even though you knew I did not want to press my claim?" he asks. And now? What happens to the North now?"

She gasps softly, her gaze skittering away from his. "We took it back," she whispers brokenly. "And we said we would never kneel to a southern ruler again."

"Is that what I am now?" he asks. "A southern king?" He huffs out a tired sounding laugh. "We took it back," he murmurs, repeating her words. "I was there," he reminds her. "On the battlefield. Taking back Winterfell. Taking back the North."

"I remember." She lifts her head and stares at him with steady regard. "And then you gave it away."

His head jerks back as if struck and then his face goes carefully blank.

"And I'm simply to exile myself to a throne in this snake pit while forfeiting any claim to the North? Sever my ties to home and live out my life here?"

She knots her fingers tightly together and shakes her head and for the first time in so long, words fail her. For all her planning, she has not, truthfully allowed herself to think this far ahead. Every time her mind would graze upon it, she would force her thoughts into another direction and now facing him, she has no answer to give.

"You and I have talked about trusting one often in the past." He leans forward and studies a scar on the back of his hand as if seeing it for the first time. "But the truth is we don't. I think maybe you have never fully trusted me and now I..."

He scrapes a hand through his hair, pulling out the leather tie that holds it back and hides behind the dark curls that tumble into his face. "And the problem is that even if we wanted to get back to a place where we did trust one another, I have absolutely no idea of where we could begin."

She pushes to her feet and stands on shaking legs.

"I should go."

"Yes," he agrees dully. "I think that would be best."

She slips carefully around him, refusing to shed the tears burning behind her eyes and pushes her way outside. Grabbing her skirts in both hands to keep the hem from trailing through the muddy snow, she crosses the short distance from his tent to hers, brushing violently past a startled Brienne.

"My lady." Armor clanking, Brienne follows her mistress into her tent.

"Not now." Sansa sucks in a serrated breath and tears spill over her lashes. "Please, Brienne," she begs. "I just... I just... Please leave me be."

She waits until Brienne reluctantly retreats before collapsing onto her narrow bunk. She buries her face in the furs beneath her in a futile attempt to stifle the harsh sound of the sobs that tear free of her throat. For so long she has held herself together by sheer force of will – building a barrier around her heart as high and as icy as the Wall itself. She had constructed it to keep everyone at a distance, even the people she loves the most. Especially the people she loves most.

For years she has been focused on the North. She has worked tirelessly to secure its independence and her family's safety. After they had taken back Winterfell, after she had dealt with Petyr, she had vowed never again to allow anyone to strip them of their hold on the North.

And then Jon had simply given it away without even the courtesy of discussing it with her.

She knows, oh she knows deep in her heart that he had not done so on a whim. That he had truly believed that bringing Daenerys and her armies North was their only hope of survival – and she concedes that he was right. But she has worked and suffered and dreamed to bring about an independent North and there is a part of her that cannot yet forgive him. A part of her that believes that he has forfeited his right to make any decisions on behalf of the North.

And she is aware, with bitter clarity, that it matters not what she wants. Despite her talk of the North not bowing again, its army is loyal to Jon. Battle after battle, he has stood at the head of the vanguard, wading into the fray, pitting his strength against their enemies. Bleeding for the North. Putting his life on the line for the North.

Though she is sure many of his men wish only to return home, they remain here and work with him shoulder-to-shoulder because he has asked it of them. No matter what she may want or what she has to say, the North is already his.

When the storm of tears finally abates and she has cried herself dry, she lies staring into the darkness until Arya slides into the bed with her, whispering softly and rubbing soothing circles on her back until at last Sansa slides into a restless sleep.

0o0o0o0

Sansa awakens early and lies carefully still lest she disturb Arya. She listens to Brienne's soft, sighing snores and watches as the predawn gloom gives way to a soft light filtering through the canvas walls, illuminating the interior of the tent. The camp stirs awake as does Arya and the two sisters stare at one another from across the pillow they share.

"Are you alright?" Arya whispers, propping herself up on one elbow.

Sitting up, Sansa scrubs the backs of her hands over cheeks that are red and itchy with the residue of dried tears. "I'm fine."

"Did Jon say something to hurt you?"

Sansa draws her knees up to her chest. "Oh, Arya. He and I have been at odds with each other since before he left for Dragonstone." She props her chin on her knees. "I don't think we understand each other very well," she murmurs.

"You hide everything you think and feel," Arya comments shrewdly. "Jon has never learned to hide anything."

"When did you become so smart?" Sansa asks, earning a brilliant smile from her sister.

"I've always been smart. You just never bothered to notice until now."

Sansa's lips curve in a fond smile. "May I ask you a question?" She wraps her arms around her legs, hugging them close to her body. "Does it bother you that the North will lose its independence?"

"Why?" Arya shrugs her shoulders. "Does it bother you?"

"Robb fought and died for it," Sansa murmurs. "Mother died for it. So many have died so that we would never again have to submit to southern rule."

"Jon is not the South," Arya protests. "Jon is..."

"...Jon is Jon." Sansa softens at the memory. _He'll keep me safe. I trust him._

"Yes," Arya sits up and wraps her arms around her knees, mimicking her sister's pose. "He's still the same person he always was."

"Jon," Sansa whispers. "Even after all these months of knowing, I can hardly believe the truth of him."

"When I think about it," Arya shifts on the straw mattress and the narrow frame of the bed squeaks in protest, "in a lot of ways, you're very alike."

"We're both stubborn," Sansa grunts.

"Yes. But you both want the same things," Arya points out. "A world free of war. A prosperous and peaceful North." She pushes one foot forward and prods her sister's leg with one toe. "And for our family to be safe."

Tears rising in her eyes, Sansa marvels that this sister, with whom she had always been at odds, should know her so well.

"You just approach everything differently," Arya continues. "You're methodical. Politically savvy. Shrewd – "

"Manipulative?"

"Your word," Arya counters. "Not mine. I would have said 'controlling'. But yes. Though, I think, always in the service of doing what you think right."

"And Jon?"

"Jon approaches everything head-on. He conceals nothing." She heaves out a sigh. "Tyrion and Davos are worried for him. They say he is too honest. That he has no head for politics. That he'll never see the dangers that are part of the underbelly of life at court..."

"They're right."

"You could help him."

"Arya," Sansa protests. "Jon most definitely does not want my help. I don't think he ever wants to see me again."

"Now you're being silly."

"No, I'm not."

"He killed her for you, you know. And for me. To protect us."

Sansa shoots her sister an incredulous look. "No," she protests. "You're wrong. He wouldn't."

"He did." Arya lays a hand on her sister's arm. "He told me."

"He told you that?" Sansa shakes her head in denial of Arya's words. She cannot imagine the Jon she knows admitting something so private to anyone, not even to the little sister he adores. "No. I don't... How did he... What did he say?"

"It was the night after he... the night after she died," Arya remembers. "Tyrion was working on getting drunk and taking us all with him. He kept refilling Jon's cup and Jon... I don't know. Maybe he wasn't paying attention. Or maybe he just wanted to drink and forget."

Sansa sees the minute shift of Arya's body as she rocks back and forth, lost in her memories and she curls a comforting arm around her younger sister's shoulders in response.

"It was terrible," Arya whispers. "I was there when he..." She shakes her head as if to bring herself back to the present. "Anyway, he'd had too much to drink and told me that he knew it was only a matter of time before Daenerys would turn back to Winterfell and want to make examples of us both. To burn us and force the North to its knees."

"Arya..." Sansa breathes in horror.

"He loved her, Sansa. But he had a choice to make and in the end..." Arya sniffles. "In the end he chose us."

0o0o0o0

She breaks her fast with Jon and the others, all of whom take their cue from the grim-faced young king, and the meal passes, silent except for the sound of spoons scraping against wooden bowls. Eager to escape the stifling mood of the assembled group, Davos and Tyrion make their excuses and quickly depart the moment they finish their meals. Jon rises hastily as if to join them but he halts in his tracks at one look from Arya.

Sansa watches from beneath her lashes as her sister stands and lays a hand on Jon's shoulder. Urging him back into his seat, the younger girl moves behind him and wraps both arms around his neck, leaning forward to whisper something into his ear. Sansa is unable to hear what she says but she sees Jon give a reluctant nod.

"Tell Grey Worm and the men that I'll meet up with them in a little while," he grumbles when Arya presses an affectionate kiss to the crown of his head and saunters away leaving Jon and Sansa alone, studying one another with caution.

The dark circles under his eyes – deep purple bruises – attest that his sleep was as restless as hers. He heaves a long-suffering sigh and Sansa feels a flare of irritation when he gestures toward her with one hand as if telling her to get on with it.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, willing herself to remain calm and searching for the words that might make him understand.

"After Father was executed," she begins, staring at a fixed point beyond his shoulder, "Joffrey would take me to the Traitor's Walk and force me to look at his head." She hears Jon make a choked sound but continues to stare past him, lost in her memories. "At night I would dream that Robb would come. He would come for me – an army at his back – and Joffrey would cower with fear before him. And then it would be Cersei screaming for mercy on the steps of the Sept just before Robb took Joffrey's head and place it on a spike for all to see."

She flicks her gaze to Jon's and sees him bob his head as if in approval of her bloodthirsty dreams.

"But Robb never came. He died. Mother died. Arya was gone. I was left alone in that nest of vipers and I knew that I was going to have to find my own way home. And when I finally got there... I realized that I had gone from one living nightmare to another." She plucks at the wool of her skirts, pleating the fabric together with nervous fingers and when she chances another look at him, she sees that the weary bitterness of his earlier expression is gone and his eyes are soft and dark with sympathy.

"I rarely thought of you," she confesses shamefacedly. "Even when we were growing up together – at some point I let you slip into the periphery of my life. When I did spare a thought for you back then, it was to pity you. 'Poor Jon'," she remembers aloud, and sees his eyes flicker and his lips twist in a parody of a smile.

"But when I learned you had been named Lord Commander at the Wall, I knew that if I could make it there, I wouldn't be alone anymore. I thought I'd find the brother I had lost all those years ago... but I didn't."

Jon surges to his feet, a look of deep hurt in his eyes. "Is there a point you're trying to make?" he bites out.

"You were always Arya's brother," Sansa says quietly. "Robb's and Bran's. Even Rickon's. But never mine."

"I would have been," he protests. "I was when you were very small," he reminds her. "Before..."

"I know," she nods. "But the man I found at the wall was neither brother, nor bastard." She gifts him with a tremulous smile. "Instead you were my confidante. My rival. My antagonist and my friend. My only family. My Jon." Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears. "There are no words to explain what you became to me. Except to say that you were mine. It was us against everyone and you were mine. Your Stark looks and your Northern burr reminded me of everything that was good about home."

"Sansa," he breathes, sinking onto a seat so near her their knees bump together when he twists to face her.

"We fought and disagreed and you drove me absolutely crazy because you wouldn't listen to me when I tried to counsel you. When they named you king I thought I would be jealous... and a part of me was. But you made me Lady of Winterfell. Gave me the lord's chambers. You put the care of _our home_ into my hands," she says, releasing a shaking breath. "Being the Lady of Winterfell... for the first time in so long, I felt that my life had worth and purpose. Taking care of Winterfell and its people... I prayed that Father could see that I was no longer the spoiled girl I had been when he died. That he could see that I had learned finally to embrace my Northern roots."

"Winterfell is the place I feel truly safe." She stretches out one hand and lays it over the back of his. "Do you understand?" she asks. "Our family has been hunted," she tells him in an urgent voice. "Winterfell is where we are safe. Maintaining control of the North, of its people and its armies, is what keeps us protected." She pulls her hand back and knots it with the other in her lap. "When you gave the North away to Daenerys without even discussing it with me... you broke my heart."

Jon exhales harshly, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I never meant to..." He drops his hands and his dark eyes are soft with sorrow. Unable to sit still, he springs back to his feet and begins to pace in a tight circle, stopping before her. "It was never my intention..."

He shakes his head and clears his throat, staring toward the blackened walls of the city. "I never wanted a crown," he begins. "I never asked for it. But you have to know that I did not give the North away on impulse." He scrapes the palm of his hand over his bearded jaw, the soft bristles rasping as they drag against roughly calloused skin.

"For so long it seemed that nearly everyone around me cared of nothing other than nattering on about the Iron Throne and the crown. First Stannis, then you, Tyrion, Daenerys... and all the while the only thing I could think was that none of it mattered if we were all dead. I felt as if I was screaming into the wind about the Night King and his army and no one could hear me." He sighs in tired remembrance.

"You asked me once if I bent the knee to save the North or because I loved her. And the answer is neither. I did it because she came beyond the Wall with only her dragons to save me and the others when we were surrounded by the Night King and his army." He tips his head back and stares into the sky as if reliving the memory of Daenerys soaring over the frozen lake, her dragons destroying masses of wights with each sweep of their fiery breath. "I did it because she risked her life and the lives of the three creatures she loved more than anything in this world. Because she lost one of them and even knowing for the first time that they were vulnerable, she pledged herself and her dragons to the North. To my people. To fight for my cause."

He lets out a laugh, soft and sad. "You can't know what that meant to me." He stares into Sansa's eyes. "To know that someone who actually had the means to help had heard me and finally believed. To know that I no longer had to shoulder it all alone. That I could return home with two dragons and two massive armies and a fighting chance for the North to survive... it was such a relief."

He lays a hand over the back of his neck and kneads the tight muscles.

"It was because she had already pledged herself to the North that I bent the knee. Not the other way around. Because she turned her back on her own plans to take Kings Landing and instead chose to help the North that I thought her worthy of the crown. I bent the knee because I believed her when she said she wanted a better world for all of us. I bent the knee because I believed she would be a fair and just queen."

"Loving her came later," he says with quiet grief.

The silence that falls over them is thick with sorrow and then Sansa rises to her feet and takes a step toward him.

"Thank you," she whispers, laying a delicate hand on his sleeve. "For telling me." She squeezes his arm through the leather covering it. "You're a good man, Jon. And you'll be a good king. It's silly for me to worry for I know the North will flourish under your rule."

"It's my home," he says simply. "I told you once before that I'll never stop fighting for it and that's still true."

"I know," she says. "I just... I wanted you to understand why I've behaved as I have. Why it will be hard for me to let go."

"Let go of what?" he asks, confusion creasing his brow. "You're still the Lady of Winterfell. I'm stuck here," he tells her. "The North needs you there. I need you there to take care of it for me."

"It's my fault," she whispers, eyes dimming with sorrow.

"What is?"

"You. Being trapped here."

He swallows hard and rubs a hand over his brow. "It would have come out eventually," he says gruffly. "Too many people knew."

"I wish there'd been another way," she says in a voice thick with tears. "Can you forgive me?"

He grimaces and looks away and she wonders if he's thinking that she should have at least tried to find another way. "Ned Stark's daughter will speak for the North," he says. "She's the best they could ask for."

"But their King is exiled far from home."

She surges toward him and feels him stiffen in her embrace for a heartbreakingly long moment until at last his own arms come around her and he crushes her against his chest, burying his face in her long, coppery hair. Swaying back and forth, they cling to one another and to what was almost lost.

0o0o0

A/N: From the outset, one of the challenges of writing this story has been to address the tensions between Jon and Sansa and the consequences their actions have not only for the greater GOT world, but also on each other. It's complicated on a lot of levels, not the least of which is that within the fandom itself there are varying factions who have chosen their corner and do not easily see perspectives from outside their chosen character/viewpoint. Several readers have expressed concern or curiosity about how Jon could possibly forgive Sansa for betraying his secret. Others have wondered how Sansa could reconcile herself with Jon having handed the North to Daenerys.

The way I see it, the friction between Jon and Sansa stems from the characters inabilities to see beyond their own myopic viewpoints to truly understand the other person's. He's focused on the threat of the Night King. She is focused on an independent North.

What I was hoping to accomplish with this chapter was to give both characters an opportunity to voice their thought processes and why they did things they did; why they think the way they think. Or, I guess, more to the point, why I think they did things the way they did.

I don't believe Jon bends the knee to Daenerys so that she will bring her armies and dragons North, just as I don't believe he bent the knee because he fell in love with her. In truth, he doesn't bend the knee until _after _she pledges her support. After Viserion is killed by the Night King she makes a vow to Jon: "We're going to destroy the Night King and his army and we'll do it together. You have my word."

For me, this is important. Because I believe it is in that moment – when she pledges herself and her two remaining dragons – to his cause (without again demanding that he pledge fealty first) that Jon comes to the belief that she will a worthy queen. And that is what allows him to bend the knee. Of course, in doing so, he gives Daenerys dominion over the North once she's on the throne.

And that puts him squarely at odds with Sansa.

Sansa's way on the other end of the spectrum on this. She's never seen the dead. I think Sansa believes Jon is speaking truthfully when he talks about an army of the dead, but it has to be very abstract to her. I don't know that the human mind is capable of truly understanding something as fantastical as that without visual proof. Instead she's focused on the North. On its independence. On maintaining that independence.

When season 8 begins, she's clearly furious with Jon. She cannot comprehend how he could give up his crown. She cannot concede that they needed Daenerys and her dragons and her armies. What drives her?

I don't subscribe to the theory that she's acting selfishly. Sansa went South as a young girl, filled with dreams of princes and pageantry and romance. And instead of finding all of that she found horror. She was brutalized and traumatized and when she gets back home, I believe she equates the North with being the one safe place for the Starks. She's not Brienne or Arya. She doesn't wield a sword and fight on the battlefield but she will fight with every weapon in her arsenal, including revealing Jon's secret, to prevent anyone or anything from holding power over her and her family again.

So, this entire chapter was a way for me to give both characters an opportunity to explain their motivations and thought processes _as I see them_. As I've said before, we all view the show and its characters and their motivations through our own personal filters. Your mileage may vary and based on various comments this story has received on previous chapters, I am sure there are those among you who will be in vehement opposition to what I've laid out here. The only thing I can say is that this is my story, my imagination, my time and labor. It's not a prompt-fill. It's the story that I'm basically telling myself to fill in the blanks or tweak the finale in a way that makes the most sense to me and in a manner that I find pleasing.

You may disagree with what I've written. That's cool. I still am interested in your thoughts, even ones in opposition to mine.

Before these notes get as long as the chapter itself, I'm going to move along. Thanks, as always, to each and every one of you who are reading. We're all busy people and the fact that you're taking some of your precious free time and using it to read something I've written brings me a great deal of joy.

Now that Sansa is finally in Kings Landing, upcoming chapters will heavily focus on her and Jon's points of view as well as their future interactions. This is the last of the chapters that I had (more or less) outlined. I have the final scene loosely written. And I have jumbled notes written on paper and on my notes app that I have to cobble together to bridge the gap between this chapter and that last scene. All of which is to say I hope to have something for you next weekend, but...


	10. Sansa II

Sansa

It is late morning when Sansa sees Tyrion and Davos walking together through the camp, deeply engrossed in conversation. Tyrion looks up and meets her gaze with a smile. Pointing her out to his companion, the two men change course in her direction.

"Ah, my lady wife," Tyrion calls as they approach. "You look radiant, as always." Ignoring her raised brow and Davos' disapproving grunt, he presses a lavish kiss to her knuckles and shoots her a cheeky grin.

"My lady," Davos murmurs respectfully.

"My lords," she greets. "Just the two men I was hoping to see."

"And how might we be of service to you, dear Sansa," Tyrion asks.

"I have been here for the better part of a week now," she begins. "And I've not yet been inside the city walls. I was hoping the two of you would consider escorting me."

"My lady," Davos cautions. "I fear it is no place for the fairer sex."

"My sister is there," Sansa points out. "And there are plenty of women and girls who make it their homes, are there not?"

Davos tilts his head to one side, conceding her point.

"Lady Stark is made of sterner stuff than most," Tyrion murmurs and Sansa smiles at him gratefully. "I must caution you in advance, Sansa," he says in a serious tone. "Our progress has been slow. Kings Landing is nothing like what you might remember."

"I understand," she says. "But I cannot just sit in this tent day after day. I traveled a long way because I wished to be of help."

"The king will not like it." Davos offers his arm to her with a resigned sigh.

"Jon would be happiest if Arya, Bran and I were all tucked safely away in the North behind Winterfell's walls." She waves a dismissive hand through the air before laying it into the crook of his arm. "It's good that I am here to irritate and disobey him on occasion," she comments with dry humor. "Otherwise, I fear he may become too accustomed to everyone about him bowing and scraping and rushing to do his bidding." A dimple flashes in her cheek as she grins impishly at the chuckling men.

Brienne falls into place at her lady's back and the foursome make their way forward. Sansa had thought the damage to the city walls was fully evident even from the Northern camp, but as they draw nearer she realizes that even that short distance had dulled the truth and she braces herself for what she might see hidden behind the remains of the outer walls.

A soft gasp escapes her and she stumbles to a halt as they enter the city.

"I thought you said you had made progress," she whispers. In every direction she sees only destruction. The scorched, crumbling remains of buildings are heaped everywhere in the streets and a city that had once been a riot of noise is now eerily quiet.

"We have, my lady." Davos scrapes his free hand over his mouth. "You cannot imagine what it was like in those early days."

"In the beginning, we spent weeks doing little more than searching for the injured and removing bodies," Tyrion remembers grimly. "And in the weeks and months since, we have been working to remove the rubble." They begin to move forward again. "I fear it may take as much as a year or longer before we can even begin to contemplate rebuilding."

Sansa's gaze wanders over the decimated streets as they continue through the city. She thinks of Winterfell and the damage done to it during the battle against the army of the dead and sees it is nothing compared to the scale of the destruction of this pitiable place.

"How does anyone live here?" she wonders aloud.

"There are some who were able to gather what few possessions they had and who left for other cities in the realm," Tyrion comments. "But the sad fact is that the surviving population is perhaps half or less than half of what it once was."

She gapes at him, her mind sluggish to comprehend the magnitude of her former husband's words.

"Come," he says kindly. "Let us show you some of what we have accomplished."

They move deeper into the city and she can see the crumbling remains of the Red Keep soaring high above on its hill. She shudders and averts her eyes from the place that had been host to her pain and torment.

"Surprisingly, the section of the city just to the north of the Red Keep came away fairly unscathed," Tyrion comments. "And so we made the decision to begin clearing the area nearest it first so that when it comes time to rebuild, we can do so from the most populated part of the city outward."

They round a corner and Sansa finally sees evidence of progress. Here there is life and noise and movement. Everywhere she looks, she sees teams of men working to remove the mountains of debris that litter the streets. Northern soldiers and the Unsullied work side-by-side and joining them are what appear to be groups of men and boys from among the city's survivors. She voices her surprise and pleasure to see the citizenry working alongside the king's men.

"There was some friction early on," Davos admits. "Scattered resistance among the people of Kings Landing to what they saw as an invading army swarming their streets, even if it was being done in the name of help."

"Resistance of what manner?" Brienne asks.

"Oh, skirmishes between some of the small folk and the soldiers. Jon and Grey Worm were kept quite busy in those early days convincing their men to stand down and moderate their response in the face of jeering crowds armed with rocks."

"Moderate their response in what way?" Sansa wonders.

"To suppress their instinct to kill the perpetrators and instead to disarm them and hold them in custody until His Grace or Grey Worm could arrive to adjudicate the matter."

"And then?"

"And then they were given the option to return to their homes if they pledged not to disturb the peace again or to be removed from the city and sent North to the Wall."

"To the Wall!" Brienne exclaims. "There's still a Night's Watch?"

"The world will always need a home for bastards and broken men," Tyrion responds simply

"And that was the end of it?" Sansa asks. "Were any of them sent to the Wall?"

"One," Davos replies.

"Only one?" Sansa prods. "What was this man's offense?"

Both men try to shrug it off as a matter of little consequence and Sansa comes to an abrupt halt.

"The deliberate vagueness of your responses leads me to believe it was a matter of greater importance than you wish to say." She plants her hands on her hips and waits with an exaggerated show of patience for one of them to speak.

"There was one particular incident," Tyrion begins.

"A former captain in Cersei's army," Davos says. "He was one of the first to volunteer to join our work crews and Jon took him on his team. He worked alongside them for a couple of days, integrating himself into the team and then one day, while they were all taking a few minutes to eat and catch their breath, he attacked."

"Jon," she says urgently. "He attacked Jon?"

"Yes." Tyrion nods and then raises his hands to ward off her next outburst. "Luckily, Jon saw the sun glint off the dagger's blade. He was able to get an arm up to block it and the others were on the man before he could make a second attempt."

"Was Jon hurt?"

"A grazing wound across the bicep." Davos hastens to say. "We cleaned and wrapped it then and there and Jon was back to work right away."

Sansa presses a hand over her heart and begins walking again and as they move through the streets, she sees Jon working alongside Grey Worm. "He should take more care," she says. "Now that he is king, he needs to prioritize his safety." She shoots both men an incredulous look. "You both know that."

"Aye," Davos says. "We do. But making Jon agree to it is quite another matter."

"If you have some suggestion as to how to convince him to sit upon a throne and rule from a safe distance, we would be happy to hear what you have to say."

She huffs out a frustrated breath and knows they are right. Jon is not going to distance himself from his people nor is he going to march through the streets surrounded by a kingsguard. She knows he tolerates Arya's hovering, protective presence only because he is overjoyed to be reunited with her after the many years of their separation.

They begin walking again and are close to Jon's party, when a horn sounds signaling a break. Some men collapse to the ground with relieved groans while others begin to form a somewhat orderly line in the street.

"What are they doing?" Sansa asks, shading her eyes with one hand.

Tyrion gestures toward a makeshift outdoor kitchen. "The crown provides a midday meal to all who assist with the cleanup effort."

Sansa nods in appreciation of the gesture. The promise of a guaranteed hot meal each day provides ample incentive for the citizens of Kings Landing to work alongside Jon's men and the Unsullied. She knows that working in close company helps to break down the mistrust between the different factions. And she knows that sharing meals breeds familiarity among them. It's a smart decision and she sends Tyrion an approving look.

Jon stands in the middle of the street, bowl in hand while conversing with anyone brave enough to approach him and Sansa lets out a quiet laugh.

"What amuses you, Lady Sansa?" Davos asks

"Jon," she says. "He's always been so solitary by nature, but since my arrival I find that he is constantly surrounded by others."

"He favors his mother's family in looks," Tyrion says softly. "And, of course, there is no one who had a greater influence on molding Jon Snow into the man he is than Ned Stark. But now that I know to look for it, I see a great deal of Rhaegar in him. As do many of the people of Kings Landing."

"Yet Rhaegar was a Targaryen. After all that has happened," she murmurs, gesturing toward the massive scale of destruction surrounding them, "how is it the people are so willing to accept another as their ruler?"

"They are weary, my lady," Davos says. "They want peace. They want stability." He jerks his chin toward Jon. "They see him here, day after day from sunrise to sunset – filthy with sweat and dirt, hands bloodied from hauling away rocks – and they have come to believe after so many months of watching him that he is not playing a false game to win their allegiance."

"The people had little respect for Robert Baratheon," Tyrion points out. "They hated and feared Joffrey and my sister. Without even trying, Jon wins by mere comparison to the last ruling family.

"Growing up, I had occasion to meet Rhaegar from time-to-time. Cersei fancied him and hoped to marry him. And, of course, Jaime was a member of the kingsguard." He tips his head back to gaze up at his former wife. "Rhaegar was a brooding, melancholy sort, yet people were drawn to him." He looks toward Jon who has settled comfortably among his men to finish his meal. "It would appear his son has the same quality."

Arya sees them as they advance and raises a hand in greeting.

"Out for a stroll?" she asks as Sansa draws near.

"I wanted to see it for myself."

"And now that you have?"

Sansa draws in a shaky breath. "I thought I had some idea of what it would be like," she says. "But this?" She looks around. "I hate this place, Arya, but I would not wish this on anyone." She stares towards the Red Keep and knows that she's not being entirely truthful, for she hopes that Cersei was filled with terror at the sight of a dragon wheeling in the skies overhead. Pursing her lips, she shakes herself back to the present. "Part of me thinks it would be best to simply relocate everyone who remains and leave this miserable place to rot."

"I've considered it."

Sansa spins at the sound of Jon's voice as he approaches from behind.

"But it's their home," he continues. "As Winterfell is ours."

She inclines her head to one side, acknowledging the truth of his words.

"I had to come," she tells him. "I had to see it."

He nods, his smile quiet and understanding. "Have a care where you travel," he cautions. "Do not venture far from the areas where work is ongoing. Many of the streets are perilous. There are buildings that are a threat to topple at any time."

"Perhaps you would consider stepping away from your duties for a bit to play escort?" she asks and at his nod of assent, she turns to Tyrion and Davos.

"Gentlemen," she smiles. "I thank you for your company and leave you to return to the work I disrupted."

"Brienne." Sansa looks toward her sworn shield. "You have my leave to return to camp should you wish. I believe I am in safe company. His Grace or Arya will accompany me back when the time comes."

"Of course, my lady." Brienne inclines her head respectfully to Sansa and then bows at the waist to Jon.

"Your Grace."

"Good day, Ser Brienne."

The tall blonde takes a step back. "Lord Tyrion, if you could spare a moment of your time," she begins with stiff formality. "You and I have not had the opportunity to speak..." Her words trail away and a spasm of grief briefly replaces her normally stoic expression.

"Of course, Ser Brienne." Tyrion looks up with a sad smile painted on his lips. "Perhaps you would be so good as to accompany me back to camp. We can speak along the way on any subject you wish to discuss."

Sansa watches sadly as the two people who loved and respected Jaime Lannister most in this world walk away and she thinks – as she has every day since her father's execution – of how life is so often cruelest to those who deserve it least.

"Where would you like to go?" Jon interrupts her maudlin thoughts and she turns to him with a small smile.

"To the Red Keep," she tells him. "I cannot heave about heavy stones, nor can I wield a sword as Arya does, but I can give comfort and assistance to the injured and I can understand those whose homes have been lost to them."

"To the Red Keep then." He wraps his hand around hers and drops an arm over Arya's shoulders when she falls into place at his other side, leading them both toward the remains of the once imposing palace. Once inside, Sansa finds the infirmary mostly quiet, empty but for a few men nursing injuries from their labor on the work crews, along with a handful of elderly treating with fever or other illness.

"These rooms were overflowing in the first days," Jon recalls. "Most were badly burned beyond the maesters' abilities and they succumbed to their injuries in the days and weeks that followed."

Sansa shudders to think of the slow agonizing deaths those poor souls had endured and she is relieved when Jon and Arya lead her down a corridor and into a room alive with sound and movement. Children dart about underfoot as women work to clear long trestle tables holding the remains of a midday meal. Through another door she sees rows of narrow beds set up with near military precision. A baby cries and is hushed at its mother's breast.

She lifts a sticky-fingered tot onto her hip and moves through the rooms, talking softly to the women, drawing them into conversation, asking as to their comfort and what the crown can do to improve their lives. She has the king's ear, she assures them, and will do what she can on their behalf. Brushing a kiss over the child's cheek, she hands him into his mother's waiting arms and turns to see Jon deeply engrossed in conversation with a man whose injured arm is cradled in a sling. She notices Arya is surrounded by a group of young girls whose faces are alight with hero worship and she steps away, venturing down one quiet corridor and then another, soon finding herself near a staircase she knows leads to the throne room. Helpless to resist the impulse, she gathers her skirt in her hands and carefully makes her way up.

A gasp escapes her as she moves into the ruins of what once had been the most majestic of chambers within the Red Keep. The roof is almost entirely gone and the walls bear great, jagged wounds where the stone has seemingly been blasted away.

She moves as if in a trance and finds herself at the foot of the throne where once she had suffered so much pain and humiliation. She can hear the echo of a frightened girl's sobs, can see a boy king's terrifying sneer, his mother's smile a cold and false rictus of sympathy.

They are dead now, she thinks. Joffrey long gone and Cersei buried beneath the rubble of the palace she had once ruled with terrifying disregard for the people of the kingdoms she had purported to serve.

They are gone. Sansa exults in the knowledge. Her enemies are dead and despite all their efforts otherwise – she remains. The throne once coveted by Joffrey and by Cersei is now little more than a thick smear of molten steel beneath her feet and she feels a savage satisfaction swell beneath her breast.

You tried to destroy us, she thinks. We have been beaten and bloodied and too many of those I loved have fallen to your cruel manipulations and to those who aligned themselves with you. Yet House Stark lives on and in our grasp is everything you once craved and more. For our house will be remembered as having protected the living not only from the march of the dead, but from those who threatened to destroy all that was left.

She sighs and takes a step back. She is ready to put behind her this place with its echoes of terror and sorrow. Turning, she sees Jon standing in the shadows, his gaze fixed on the eastern sky visible through the gaping holes in the ceiling above and she knows it is not only her ghosts which haunt this wretched place.

She moves toward him, pressing close so that she can curl both hands around the tightly clenched fist hanging at his side.

"Jon," she breathes.

He turns his head at the sound of her voice calling to him softly and lays his brow against hers.

"There is nothing for us here," she whispers.

So close are their faces, she can feel each warm puff of his breath against her lips; can almost hear the flutter of his lashes when he closes his eyes. And when he draws her closer so that they are pressed together from chest to hip, she lays her head on his shoulder and closes her own eyes, nestling into the warmth and familiarity of his embrace.

"Let us leave this place and its ghosts behind," she murmurs.

He nods, brushing a sweet kiss along the smooth skin of her brow. Unclenching his fist, he tangles his fingers through hers and together they head down the crumbling stairs, turning their backs on the past.

A/N: Apologies.

A bit of writer's block, the intrusions of real life and a certain amount of laziness have all conspired to result in a near two week gap between chapters. I recently attended the Game of Thrones Concert Experience and was motivated to finish and post this chapter.

Thanks to all who are sticking with this story. Life is busy and there are a myriad of ways to spend what little free time we have. Knowing that any of you choose to spend some of yours reading something I've written is intensely gratifying.


	11. Jon V

Jon

Jon's quarters are enlarged to be more fitting of his status.

"You are the _king_," Sansa stresses. "I am not suggesting you fit yourself out in jewel encrusted silks," she tells him when he automatically protests. "Nor am I proposing you hold yourself aloof and distant from your subjects. Or that you cease to work alongside your men. I know better than to advise anything of the like. But a leader must be set apart from his people – not just by his actions," she says, holding up a hand to forestall the argument she can see forming by the stubborn look in his eyes, "but also in more obvious ways."

"I know that you know this, Jon. Your position as Lord Commander at the Wall afforded you larger quarters and a steward to serve you," she reminds him. "And as king you must be made to be seen as other. Apart. The people must hold you in high esteem. Your actions already set the tone, but you cannot be seen as ordinary. They must know you to be special. As having a claim to the throne that is preordained and sanctioned by the gods."

He suspects she is right. He has come to learn – often the hard way – that she often is. But what she doesn't understand, and what he isn't eloquent enough to put into words, is that he has no foundation for what she seemingly expects of him. For all that he may be the trueborn son of a prince and the rightful heir to the throne, he was raised a bastard. A bastard from a noble family, it is true – with all the advantages that afforded him over others who were baseborn – and yet he had been taught at an early age that his very existence was sinful and a stain on Ned Stark's otherwise flawless honor. Whispered taunts of 'bastard' from many who served at Winterfell, as well as sneering jibes from Theon and Lady Stark's coldness towards him had been steady reminders that his status was lacking to that of his siblings. A handful of months of knowing the truth of who his parents really were – and of what that made him now – struggled to stand up against a lifetime of being told otherwise.

Jon's youthful aspirations had been to be a brother of the Night's Watch and to join his uncle in a spartan life at the Wall. To rise high within the ranks of the brotherhood. To acquit himself with honor in all things. Everything he knows of leadership has been learned from necessity; from time and again being thrust into a role where someone had to step forward and take control. He knows how to lead on the battlefield. He has no earthly idea of how to rule from atop a throne.

He is comfortable in the company of his family and in the familiarity of working amongst his men. But he is made uneasy at the thought of elevating himself so high above all others for no reason beyond the fact that he now knows himself to be the son of a man he never met.

Yet Sansa, with velvet-gloved insistence, will have her way, and although he remains in residence within the Northern encampment, his tent is enlarged and bit-by-bit, small comforts make their way within. An extra fur – thick and soft – is piled atop the somewhat threadbare one he had taken from Winterfell to the Wall all those years ago. A pair of chairs – their velvet cushions darkened by the soot and ash of dragonfire – but still comfortable, flank a large bronze brazier in one corner. Ornate rugs cover the hard-packed dirt floor and hang on the walls of the tent, providing both warmth and a sense of subtle grandeur. A long table – its polished surface slight scarred but serviceable – is wrestled into his quarters – like everything else, scavenged from the Red Keep at Sansa's direction until she is satisfied that his surroundings are sufficient to greet those who might seek an audience with him. It is a far cry from luxurious, but more comfortable and imposing than anything he has known as his own outside of his life at Winterfell, and each night when he lowers his aching body into the soft cradle of the feather mattress atop his narrow bed, he cannot help the contented sigh that escapes his lips.

He sits at the table breaking the morning fast with Arya, Sansa and the others who have come to informally comprise his small council. The meal includes the delightful surprise of a dollop of honey stirred into each bowl of porridge, a cask of which has been gifted to the king from a minor lord whose estate sits on a far corner of the Reach and who is not subtle in his desire to expand his position and territory within that region.

There is little discussion to be had as everyone applies themselves to their meal. Arya, Davos and Tyrion make quick work of it, eagerly downing the honey-sweetened gruel while Sansa takes ladylike bites, savoring each spoonful. A rare, barely-there smile curls Grey Worm's lips as he slowly consumes his meal and Ser Brienne devotes herself to her breakfast with silent pleasure.

Though the porridge cools, Jon lingers over his bowl taking measured bites, for the sweet is a rare treat to one whose meals in recent years could have been best described as merely edible. He has instructed the cook to include the sweet in the morning's breakfast for the entire camp.

Arya scrapes her spoon against the bottom of her bowl in a futile effort to gather one last taste as Sansa takes a delicate, final lick of her spoon before setting her own bowl to the side.

"That was lovely," she sighs. "We can only hope that more of the nobility will feel similarly inclined to curry your favor, Your Grace." She grins to see Jon roll his eyes in response.

"Indeed." Tyrion discreetly runs a finger along the inside of his bowl. "Let us not yet reveal that Highgarden has already been promised away while we can yet reap the limited spoils of the lords who aspire to that seat of power."

"Promised away, my lord?" Jon asks with a raised brow. "By whom?" he asks.

"Why... by myself," Tyrion replies hesitantly, shooting a discomfited glance around the table as the others stare at him in stunned surprise.

"And might we ask who might be the intended recipient of your generous gift?" Sansa asks.

Tyrion rises from the table to splash a measure of ale into his cup. "Ser Bronn," he mumbles, his words muffled by the goblet at his mouth.

"Pardon?" Brienne asks. "Did you say Ser Bronn? Ser Bronn of the Blackwater?"

Jon sees Davos flinch at the mention of the battle in which his son had died before his attention is caught again by Sansa.

"You cannot be serious," she exclaims as she leans across the table toward her former husband. "By what authority did you make so rash a decision?"

"As Hand, I had full right –"

"You are no longer Hand to anyone," Arya reminds him in a low growl, drawing a wounded look from the last Lannister.

"His name is familiar," Jon says, raising a hand to ward off an argument between the two.

"You met him in King's Landing," Tyrion responds, shifting his attention away from Arya's baleful expression. "He greeted us after we walked up from the docks and was our escort to the dragonpit."

Jon has a vague memory of a man with weather-beaten skin, oily hair and a foul-mouthed brand of humor with whom Tyrion had traded good-natured insults.

"Cersei's man, then," is all he says in response.

"He is a sellsword, your grace." Brienne's lips curl in a sneer of disgust.

"His loyalties are... flexible," Tyrion concedes. "But he has saved my life and my brother's on more than one occasion."

"Why don't you just explain how you came to make such a promise to this man," Jon suggests.

And so Tyrion describes Bronn's late night visit at Winterfell, the calm manner in which the sellsword explained that Cersei had sent him to kill her brothers, the threatening thud of the crossbow bolt embedding itself into the beam behind Jamie's head and his own promise to double Cersei's offer of Riverrun by gifting Bronn with Highgarden.

"In truth, I did not believe any of us would live to see the sun rise again," Tyrion admits. "I didn't think control of Highgarden would matter."

"You have always been very clever in your ability to turn matters to your own advantage," Jon concedes. "I applaud your skill at surviving by any means necessary, Lord Tyrion. But surely you cannot believe that I would support naming this man as the Lord Paramount of the Reach? That, I would be willing to put control over the most fertile lands in all of Westeros into the hands of a man whom you describe as having ever-shifting loyalties."

Tyrion shakes his head and sinks back into his chair. "No," he murmurs. "I can see you would not." Looking up, he lets out a soft sigh. "But, your Grace, I would be surprised if he has not already taken up residence at Highgarden."

"Then he will have to leave," Jon says flatly. "Immediately."

"Perhaps after you have him evicted, you will consider assigning me a personal bodyguard," Tyrion mutters softly even as he acquiesces to Jon's demands.

"The Tyrell line is extinct," Sansa says slowly. "But there are lesser lords in the Reach whose lands were left relatively unscathed in the wars."

"Aye," Davos agrees. "And all those lords'll be vying for positions of power and seeking the favor of the last dragon," he rumbles.

"The truth is that there are a number of houses made extinct in the wars," Sansa continues. "Highgarden is just one castle that has been left empty and vulnerable."

"Mostly in the North," Arya murmurs and Jon thinks of Houses Mormont, Karstark and Umber and of the heads of those houses – children, all brave beyond their years and cut down when they should still have been in the schoolroom.

"We should come up with a list of names," Davos begins.

Jon nods toward his Hand. "You and Lord Tyrion should begin to compile such a list," he says. His eyes rove over the others seated around the table.

"The Lady Sansa has a good mind for the politics of the realm and she knows well the North and its people." He stares at her intently, sees the pleased smile that twists one corner of her mouth. "If you are willing, I would have you work with Ser Davos and Lord Tyrion on this matter."

She demurely inclines her head to one side in agreement, but he can see that her mind is already racing with possibilities.

"Sansa." Jon leans back in his chair and trains his gaze on his cousin. "I trust you know my mind on this," he says. "I would keep the castles and control of their lands with family relations, no matter how distant, if you think them capable and worthy of stewardship."

"I know what it is you would want," she assures him with a decisive nod.

"If you cannot come to agreement on satisfactory relatives, or if none such live, then we will look to gift those who have served us well," he says before turning his gaze toward Tyrion.

"My lord, you will pen a message to this Ser Bronn. Inform him that he shall not have Highgarden, nor shall he have Riverrun which rightfully belongs to House Tully." He sees Sansa's shoulders sag with relief and a fierce smile curve Arya's lips. "If he has already taken possession of Highgarden, you will make it known that he must vacate immediately. Impress upon him that I am in little good humor these days and I will not tolerate retaliation against you or any member of my small council. It is in his own best interest to vacate willingly. I have enough to deal with here, but if I must remove him from the castle on the tip of my sword, I will do so."

"Yes, Your Grace," Tyrion says as he bows his head obediently.

"Tell him that if he proves loyal to me, to my cause, and to my people, then I might consider gifting him a title along with a small keep and land. Bring the note to me when you are finished and I will sign it so that he might know it comes from me directly."

He pushes away from the table and straps Longclaw around his waist as the others scramble to their feet.

"Arya and Grey Worm, you are with me. We will continue this discussion tonight over the evening meal," he says before striding off to begin his day.

TBC

A/N: It's been a long time between updates. I can honestly say that not a week has gone by that I haven't given it some thought. And I've scribbled ideas and bits and pieces of dialogue but inspiration to pull it all together into an actual chapter for posting has been elusive. My office is rife with rumor that we might be shutting down temporarily like so much of the rest of the world. I'm not looking forward to endlessly long hours trapped inside - but we all have to do our part to get this pandemic under control and one bright spot for me would be time to write in between the occasional work-from-home assignments that might come my way. In the meantime, I hope you're all being good to yourselves while taking care of your families and friends. Be safe. Be well.


	12. Sansa III

Sansa

Sansa races past the city walls in search of Jon. Armor creaking with every step, Brienne gives chase, beseeching her lady to slow down. Finally catching sight of him with his men, Sansa comes to a stop and bends at the waist, breathing hard and cursing her restrictive undergarments as she tries to catch her breath.

Arya spots them first and cries out to Jon, drawing his attention. He scrambles down from the pile of rubble on which he was perched and sets off after her. Alarm etched on her features, Arya reaches her sister, followed closely by Jon who grasps at Sansa's arms.

"What is it?" he asks, cupping her elbows in his hands and stooping to make eye contact with her as she struggles to normalize her breathing. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

"You must... you must come with me, now," she gasps, clutching at his sleeves. "The representative from the Iron Bank is on his way."

"Now?" Arya asks. "We were not expecting him for at least another day if not more."

"I know." Sansa straightens up, one hand pressed against her midsection as her breathing finally begins to slow. "But a rider from today's patrol just returned to let us know that a ship bearing the sigil of the Iron Bank has been sighted nearing the harbor. They will be here very soon."

Jon sags with relief to know that nothing disastrous has happened and then a look of irritation crosses his features. "Let him wait then," he says narrowing his eyes. "I have little experience dealing with bankers," he says. But I understand battlefield tactics and his surprise arrival is the equivalent of staking out the high ground before we even meet. He is looking to catch us off guard."

Sansa reaches out to again grasp at his sleeve. "You cannot keep the Iron Bank waiting!" she exclaims.

"He's the king, isn't he?" Arya asks flicking a thumb toward her brother. "Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm and all that?" She aims a sneering laugh at him and he rubs a hand over her head, tousling her hair as he did when they were children together in Winterfell.

"This is serious," Sansa grits out. "No monarch, no matter how powerful, snubs the Iron Bank," she tells them. "Not Robert Baratheon. Not Cersei Lannister. Even Tywin Lannister had a healthy fear and respect of them."

Arya stills, good humor subsiding and she nods, remembering the man she had briefly served. "You're right," she acknowledges to Sansa. "The Iron Bank is probably the only thing that Tywin Lannister ever showed any regard or respect for." She turns to Jon with an apologetic shrug. "You better listen to her."

Jon throws up his hands in defeat and Sansa clamps her fingers around his forearm and begins to tow him back toward the Northern camp before he can change his mind. Pulling him into his tent, she drops to her knees and begins feverishly to dig through the meager pile of clothes stored in the trunk at the foot of his camp bed. Everything is well made and well mended, but there is nothing he owns befitting his rank and she is irked that she had not considered the matter when they had first received word from the Iron Bank requesting a meeting. With little other choice, she decides that if she cannot put him in luxurious fabrics, she will instead make sure he looks like the warrior king that he is.

She pulls out a black tunic and breeches and tosses them toward him. Spotting a tear in the shoulder seam of his dark quilted gambeson, she rises to her feet.

"Wash up and start to dress," she orders. "I will be back soon."

She hurries from his tent to the one she shares with Arya and pulls out needle and thread to make the necessary repairs, taking tiny, neat stitches despite the need for haste.

She returns to find him damp-haired and shrugging into the linen tunic. She calls for his squire and directs the boy to take the king's scuffed and dusty boots out for a hasty cleaning.

"Fetch Lord Tyrion and tell him to bring a decanter of the wine he found in his sister's chambers," she tells the boy before giving him a gentle push toward the tent flap.

Sansa turns back to Jon and he pulls the repaired gambeson over his tunic, lacing it tightly at the throat. She huffs out a groan when she hefts his brigandine in her hands, the steel plates hidden between layers of leather heavier than she had expected. With the squire gone, it falls to her to help him pull it over his head and she steps to his side to begin cinching closed the straps and buckles at his shoulders and waist. He lets out a quiet grunt when she yanks one closure too tightly and she murmurs her apology.

He turns his head to watch her fingers fumble with a recalcitrant strap and her breath catches in her throat as she finds herself abruptly aware of him. The moment seems to drag on, suspended in time, and she feels a sudden rush of heat at the unexpected closeness of his face to hers and the warmth of his breath brushing over her lips.

A flush stains his cheeks at the sound of the tiny gasp that slips from her throat and she feels his chest heave once beneath the hand she has splayed over the metal studded leather of his garment. Heart hammering beneath her breasts, she finishes her work and takes a quick step back. They stare at one another, wide-eyed and unblinking before he breaks the spell by reaching into the footlocker and lifting out his metal gorget with its twin snarling direwolves.

"No," she says, laying a restraining hand on his arm. "Today you must not be a Stark."

"I've never been a Stark," he reminds her.

"You are to me," she says, and they share an affectionate smile, comfortable once again at the old exchange.

"There is little that can be done of your looks," she muses and he blinks at her, unsure whether to be affronted or not.

"I mean only that you will never look a Targaryen," she amends. "There is too much of the North in you."

"Aye," he agrees. "I take pride in my Northern roots."

"I know. You remind me so of Father and Uncle Benjen," she tells him. "But your claim to the throne rests on your Targaryen blood and there will be times, like today, when we must remind others of that."

"Is that why I'm dressed all in black?" he asks.

"Yes, though without a speck of red to be found you look more a man of the Night's Watch than you do a Targaryen prince."

"Fitting, as I _feel_ more a man of the Night's Watch than I ever will a Targaryen prince."

Tyrion pushes his way into the tent interrupting their exchange.

"He will be here within the next twenty minutes," he announces as he thumps a bottle of wine onto the table. "That should be moved here," he says stabbing a finger toward one of the oversized velvet-cushioned chairs flanking the bronze brazier and then pointing toward one side of the table.

Sansa purses her lips for a moment as she ponders her former husband's suggestion, then nods in agreement and moves toward the chair before Jon heaves a sigh and holds out a hand to stay her movement.

"Are we holding a meeting or staging a mummer's show?" he asks as he hefts the chair in his hands and moves it to the spot indicated at the table.

"We are setting a scene," Tyrion tells him. "With you at center stage."

Sansa confers with the former Hand and they push and shove chairs until the table is arranged to their liking.

"You should remain here, Your Grace," Tyrion says, finally satisfied with the seating arrangements. "Your lovely cousin and I will meet our esteemed guest."

Sansa and Tyrion leave to join Davos at one of the city gates to await the arrival of the Iron Bank representative. Several heavily armed outriders arrive first, followed by a small but ornate wheelhouse from which emerges a tall man with closely trimmed hair and a clean shaven face.

Davos steps forward. "Lord Tycho." He greets the banker with an outstretched hand. "We meet again."

"Lord Davos," the other man replies. "Alive and well and serving yet another king."

"The true king," Tyrion interrupts.

Sansa's eyes narrow as she sees the banker arch a brow as if in challenge of the smaller man's assertion. "You must be Lord Tyrion Lannister."

"I suppose I must."

"Please allow me to introduce the King's cousin, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell." Davos gestures towards Sansa who stands silent as a statue, Brienne as ever at her lady's side.

"My lady." Tycho clicks his heels together and bobs his head courteously.

"My lord." She smiles politely. "You have arrived a full day before we expected you. I trust your journey was without difficulty?"

"Thankfully the seas were calm and the breezes strong, my lady. We made excellent time." The banker responds.

"I am glad to hear it." She snugs her cloak more tightly under her chin as a breeze kicks up. "Come, we will find a warmer place to talk."

"I hope to meet with the King." Tycho begins.

"His Grace is very busy and with your arrival being so much earlier than expected it would be helpful to have some idea of what business brings you all this way," Davos prods in an attempt to suss out the reason for the bank's sudden request for an audience with Jon.

"My business is of a personal nature," the other man says. "I cannot discuss it with you before I do so with the King himself."

"Then we will take you him." Sansa says sweetly leading the banker toward the Northern camp.

They file into the tent to find Jon poring over a parchment spread out on the table before him, scratching marks onto it with the quill in his hand. Arya is pacing the confines of the tent behind him and stops as the others push their way through the flap.

"Your Grace," Davos calls out. "The representative from the Iron Bank has arrived."

Sansa is amused to see Jon finish his notation before he raises his head. While she would like to believe that he is playing at a king's haughtiness, she knows he truly does find meetings such as this to be loathsome and that he would much prefer working alongside his men in restoring the city or even handling the paperwork he so dreads.

"My lord," Tycho inclines his head. "It is a pleasure to meet you.

Sansa opens her mouth to protest but Davos raises his voice to intervene. "Lord Tycho, before you is King of the Seven Kingdoms. You will please address him by his appropriate title."

"Of course. I offer my apologies, Your Grace."

Jon waves the apology away with a flick of his hand and gestures towards the chair opposite his. "Please, my lord. Have a seat."

Tycho takes his seat and the others array themselves around Jon – Sansa in the chair on his left and Davos and Tyrion to his right while Arya takes a position behind Jon's shoulder and Brienne keeps watch over all from her place near the entrance.

"Wine?" Tyrion asks cheerfully, pouring a glass for everyone and passing them about.

"To the King's good health," Tycho offers, lifting his glass and the others echo his actions, each of them taking a small sip of wine. Jon's glass remains on the table untouched though he tips his head in acknowledgment of the well wishes offered him.

"Thank you, my lord," he says. "I hope your voyage was uneventful."

"It was, I thank you."

Sansa watches from the corner of her eye as Jon leans back in his chair, one elbow propped on the armrest, a finger tapping restlessly against his bearded jaw while he waits in silence for the other man to begin.

"You requested this meeting, my lord," she says quickly. "Perhaps you would be good enough to tell us why."

"Yes. Well..." Tycho rummages through his satchel and places a scroll rolled in oilcloth onto the table before him. "Before I begin, and I beg you not to take insult, Your Grace, but is there any tangible way in which you can prove that you are indeed the trueborn son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen?"

The others stir restlessly, surprised by the banker's question when in truth they had all been expecting him to bring up the repayment of Cersei's debt.

"That's a rather impertinent question, Lord Tycho," Sansa comments. "Are you implying that His Grace is not being truthful?"

"By what right does the Iron Bank make such a demand?" Davos growls.

Tycho lays a hand on the oilcloth-wrapped scroll and gives it a small pat. "I cannot say other than that the contents of this scroll belong to Rhaegar's heir. I cannot release it to any other, nor can I release it until I am satisfied on behalf of the Iron Bank that I have been given appropriate proof that His Grace is who he claims to be."

Arya bristles from her position behind Jon and he raises a hand to settle the room.

"It is a rather bold request," he says, arching a challenging brow toward the banker.

"It is, Your Grace," Tycho nods. "But you must admit that you greatly resemble Eddard Stark. I can see nothing of the Targaryens in you."

"He favors his mother," Sansa bites out. "My Aunt Lyanna."

"I have nothing to hide." Jon says quietly. "Lord Tyrion, if you would be so good as to retrieve the information we have just recently received?"

Tyrion slides down from his chair and crosses the floor to crouch before a small locked cabinet from which he pulls an iron strongbox. He lugs it back to the table and sets it before Davos who withdraws a key from inside his tunic pocket. Opening the box, he withdraws two scrolls.

"The first is from the Citadel, written in Archmaester Ebrose's hand and bearing his seal," Sansa says as Davos stretches an arm across the table toward the banker. The other man unrolls the seal and begins to read. "You will see the Archmaester attests to diary entries left behind by High Septon Maynard regarding the annulment of Rhaegar's marriage to Princess Elia Martell and his subsequent marriage to my aunt, Lyanna Stark."

"The second document is a written accounting by Howland Reed, Lord of the Greywater Watch and loyal vassal to House Stark," she continues. "In it he has laid out the events by which he and my father discovered my Aunt Lyanna and her newborn son in a tower in Dorne under the protection of three members of the Kingsguard."

"Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent and Gerold Hightower," Tycho murmurs as he reads Howland Reed's accounting. "Such men would not have left Rhaegar to face Robert Baratheon at the Trident without them at his side if not for the fact that they were guarding the heir to the throne."

It is clear to all that he finds Lord Reed's accounting and the presence of the Kingsguard in Dorne more compelling evidence than even the Archmaester's attestation.

He looks across the table. "And yet, you were raised by Ned Stark as his bastard."

"I was."

"And you had no idea?"

"None. Lord Stark revealed the truth to no one, not even his wife." Jon's expression and voice are impassive, giving no hint of the indignities he had suffered as the Bastard of Winterfell, nor the despair he had felt at learning that he had never, in truth, been the son of Ned Stark.

"My father knew that Robert Baratheon would have had Jon slain had anyone known the truth of his parentage," Sansa asserts. "He protected him by hiding him in plain sight."

"Your Grace," Tycho says, handing the scrolls back to Jon, "I thank you for sharing this with me. In return, I offer you what is here." Again he lays a hand upon the scroll in his possession. "I have no knowledge of the contents of this document beyond that it was written by your father – your true father. Rhaegar Targaryen left this with the Iron Bank before he departed with his armies to meet Robert Baratheon at the Trident with clear instructions that should he fall in battle, it was to be held – unopened – for his trueborn heirs or for a period of twenty-five years. The Iron Bank has fulfilled its duty by safeguarding it until now. I am pleased to present it, finally, to Rhaegar's son."

Sansa watches with curiosity and concern as Jon takes the proffered scroll from the banker and unwinds the narrow strip of leather which fastens the protective cover closed. She sees his fingers tremble as he hesitates before breaking the seal bearing the sigil of House Targaryen – it's three-headed dragon standing out in sharp relief against a pool of faded red wax.

She studies his expression closely as he reads the contents silently, looking for some clue of what it contains, but his face is a stoic mask when he hands it to her. Arya leans forward, peering over her sister's shoulder as Sansa begins to read aloud.

_'In the Year 281 A.C., I, Rhaegar of House Targaryen, son of Aerys II and rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms, do hereby command that upon my death, the entirety of my accumulated wealth, now held for safekeeping by the Iron Bank, be divided amongst my trueborn children who survive me in accordance with the following instructions._

_First – one-half shall be distributed to my eldest living son and heir upon his reaching the age of majority._

_Second – the remaining one-half shall be divided equally among my other trueborn children who survive me upon their having reached the age of majority, or to the survivor of them._

_Should any of my trueborn children predecease me or die without leaving issue of their own, their shares shall pass to my other living trueborn children in equal shares._

_I make no separate provision for the mothers of said children – Elia of House Martell and Lyanna of House Stark – beyond the monies settled upon them at the times of our marriages and the jewels and gifts bestowed upon them during my lifetime, trusting that our children will see to the care and comfort of their mothers. _

_Should none of my trueborn children survive me, I order that the entirety of my estate be held for a period of twenty-five years, upon which time it shall be divided among my trueborn siblings who are then-living, or to their issue in equal shares. If none of my said siblings are then living and have left no issue, it shall be divided in equal shares and distributed to Elia Martell and Lyanna Stark, or to their respective Houses, should either or both of them be not then-living.' _

Sansa looks up and turns her head toward Jon who is staring sightlessly at the top of the table.

"It is signed, Rhaegar of House Targaryen and bears his seal," she finishes.

The room is silent as everyone digests the contents of Rhaegar's final wishes and then Tyrion speaks, shattering the stunned quiet.

"There, in his final words, is proof beyond doubt – written in Rhaegar's own hand – that Lyanna of House Stark bore him a legitimate child," he said pointing toward the parchment lying on the table. "There can be no question as to your legitimacy now, Your Grace. Nor to your rightful claim to the throne of Westeros."

Davos and Tyrion lean across the table shooting a volley of questions toward the banker. For his part, Jon says little, instead allowing his councilors to speak. Arya leans forward and whispers softly in his ear and though his expression remains passive, Sansa knows he must be overwhelmed. She reaches out and lays a hand over the one he has fisted on his thigh, working at it until he uncurls his fingers and laces them with hers. She squeezes his hand, urging him to look up and when he finally raises his gaze to hers, she gives him a teary smile.

"All will be well," she whispers fiercely, no doubt echoing whatever it is that Arya has been murmuring into his ear. "Remember, you will always be a Stark. You will always be part of the pack."

0o0o0o0

The banker leaves shortly after, assuring Jon that the Iron Bank is ever at his service, and returns to his ship which will remain docked at the harbor until midday next should the king or his advisors have any additional questions.

"What does all of this mean?"

Sansa turns her head toward Arya who remains fixed behind Jon, her hand on his shoulder and a confused expression on her face.

"I believe it means that His Grace is now the wealthiest man in all of Westeros," Tyrion comments dryly.

Sansa feels Jon's fingers spasm around hers in response to Tyrion's words. She wonders what must be going on in his head – this once bastard boy with no prospects beyond serving at the Wall – to now having written confirmation in his father's own hand of his legitimacy and to find himself the sole beneficiary of not only the title of king, but also of the known remains of the once vast Targaryen wealth.

"He did not even make mention of Cersei's debt," Arya continues, referring to their initial presumption as to the Iron Bank's intent when it had sent a request for this meeting.

"No," Sansa says. "But considering what we've just learned, he wouldn't, would he?" She looks towards Tyrion and he nods in agreement.

"Certainly not," he says, helping himself to another glass of wine. "The Iron Bank will want to remain in the king's good graces with the hopes of retaining the bulk of Jon's inheritance within its vaults. The monies borrowed by my dear sister are but a pittance in comparison."

"Well then." Sansa jumps when Jon speaks for the first time since the banker had handed him Rhaegar's final written instructions. "He will have to suffer his disappointment for if it is indeed mine, I have plans for how to use Rhaegar's funds."

"Let us give His Grace some privacy." Sansa rises to her feet and gestures to the others who begin to make their way from his tent.

"If you need anything..." She lays a hand on his shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze.

"Will you stay?"

She sinks back into her seat and watches as he endlessly traces the loops and swirls of Rhaegar's signature with the tip of his finger.

"What could they have been thinking?" Jon finally breaks the long silence that had fallen over them. "Rhaegar and Lyanna?"

"I don't know," she breathes. "They were in love... perhaps they thought no further than that."

"Selfish," he sighs. "Stupid and misguided." Snatching up Rhaegar's letter, he rises to his feet and begins to pace about the small space. "Countless numbers suffered and died for their love, beginning with the family he spoke of in this." He waves the letter over his head with growing agitation. "His wife and his children. Butchered because he was not there to protect them. Because near half the Kingsguard was in Dorne with Lyanna and the others with Rhaegar at the Trident. Murdered in their beds because he left only one to ensure their safety." He scrapes one hand over his jaw and looks at her pleadingly. "I never wanted this." He thrusts the letter with his inheritance towards her. "I was not born to it. I was not raised to it. It should have been theirs."

"I know," Sansa agrees. She stands and moves toward him. "And you are right. Lyanna and Rhaegar acted stupidly and selfishly." She lays a hand on his chest and takes the scroll from him with the other, setting it onto the table behind her. "And yet, had they not, you would never have been born and the world would be a poorer place without you."

"No," he says, shaking his head vehemently. "What is one life in comparison to the many lost in the wake of their choices?"

"True. But how many more would have been lost had you never been born? Had you not gone to the Wall? Had you not seen the dead and rallied a defense against them?" She tips her head to one side. "We would all of us be dead. All of Westeros would have fallen to the Night King."

He draws in a deep breath as he considers her words, his chest rising and falling heavily beneath her fingers.

"You can be very sweet," he finally says and takes her hands in his.

"What you mean is that I can be very sweet when I choose," she counters with a smirking grin, her spirits lifting when she sees his lips curve upward.

"Your hands are chapped," he murmurs distractedly as he runs his thumbs over her knuckles. "You should wear your gloves."

"In my head, I know that it is winter here," she admits. "But so often it feels more like a Northern spring and I forget to wear them."

He turns her hands over and presses a kiss to her palms – first one and then the other and she shivers, her fingers twitching in instinctive pleasure at the soft, warm press of his lips against her tender flesh.

She shifts closer when he raises his head. Her forehead pressed to his, she sees his lips move, her name on them a silent prayer or plea, and she raises her hands to curl her fingers into the short hairs of his beard. Her breathing slows and she inhales the faint smell of wood smoke and leather and the oil he uses to maintain his sword and underlying it all, a scent that is unique to him.

"I do not say it often enough," he murmurs. "And the gods may well damn me for keeping you in this wretched place as I have. But I am grateful that you are here. I could not have borne this moment without you."

A/N: I have, indeed, been working from home for the last three months. I had no idea what that would entail. I think I envisioned occasional busy times interspersed with long periods of inactivity. Instead, my days are as busy as in the office. That's not a complaint. I am grateful to be working as I know so many others, including members of my own family, are not. But I left my office in March thinking that I was going to get a lot of writing done and the truth is that when the day is over, the last thing I want to do is spend more time sitting at my home desk writing.

Having said that, I did complete this chapter. And have the next chapter all but done. I want to let it stew for a week and then do some editing on it before I post it. Both this chapter and the next are from Sansa's POV. I had thought to jump from this one to the next being from Jon's perspective, but the Sansa in my head is very concerned that she get her say and so she shall have it.

I have a third chapter that will be told from a variety of points of view – at least three, possibly four. I have written chunks of some POV's and snippets of others. Eventually I will cobble it together into a coherent chapter.

After that... well, I know where the story ends. I just have to figure out how to bridge the gap.

As the world awakens and reopens – both big cities and small towns – I hope that you will all take proper care and precautions and that you and your families will remain safe and in good health.

-emn


	13. Sansa IV

Sansa

A distant commotion and the sound of raised voices draws Sansa's attention from her needlework.

"I would have you remain inside, my lady." Brienne lays a hand on the hilt of her sword when Sansa rises to her feet. "Allow me first to determine what is happening."

The tall blonde woman steps outside, but it is the sound of Arya's shouts that sends Sansa rushing from the tent and pushing her way past her sworn shield.

"Move!" Arya bellows. "Make way for the king."

Sansa's heart lodges in her throat at the sight of Jon being supported by Ser Davos and a young soldier she does not recognize. Blood runs freely from a wound on his head, coating one side of his face and soaking into the dark whiskers of his beard.

"I am fine."

She sags with relief at the hoarse sound of his voice and dashes forward as the group approaches.

"What happened," she cries, clutching Arya's arm. "Was there an attack?

"No, my lady," Davos grunts as he helps to drag a still protesting Jon into the king's tent. "A building collapsed and fell upon His Grace."

"You are exaggerating, Ser Davos." Jon groans and squints through the blood dripping from his brow. "A building collapsed _near _me. Not on me." He leans against the table and lifts a hand instinctively toward the wound and Sansa springs forward to slap his hands away.

"Your hands are filthy," she hisses. "Get me something to staunch the blood," she demands and Arya hurries to bring her sister a clean piece of linen. Sansa presses the cloth firmly against the wound and shoots Jon an apologetic look when he winces and lets out a pained hiss.

Daylight spills into the tent as Tyrion pushes his way inside.

"What in the names of all of the gods is going on!" he bellows and soon the small enclosure is filled with the chaotic chatter of many voices – each trying to speak over another.

"Enough!"

Sansa jumps at the sound of Jon's exasperated shout.

"Everyone get out," he growls more quietly.

The others stare at him for a long, silent moment and then glance around at one another before they beginning speaking again – this time in objection to the king's command.

"Be reasonable, Your Grace," Tyrion pleads. "We must at least fetch a Maester to attend you."

Sansa removes the blood soaked linen, pleased to note the flow of blood has begun somewhat to lessen and replaces it with a fresh one. She sees the mulish expression in Jon's eyes and recognizes the ticking of a muscle beneath his beard as a sign that he is fast losing his grip on his temper.

"Hold this here," she murmurs and gestures towards Arya to take her place. "Press tightly," she instructs before letting go.

"Gentlemen," she steps towards the others. The king is tired from his ordeal and needs rest."

She extends both arms and begins to herd the men towards the tent flap.

"But, Sansa. Surely you must agree," Tyrion objects. "He is injured and requires medical attention."

"Ser Davos, do you believe any of the king's injuries to be life threatening?" she asks the grizzled knight.

"No, my lady. We are blessed that he does not seem to have suffered any broken bones. It looks to be scrapes and bruises for the most part. But Lord Tyrion is right in his thinking. The head wound must be tended to."

"Of course, it should and it will." She gifts them both with a confident smile. "It will not be the first time I have stitched Jon's wounds." She reminds them of the long hours she had spent tending to the injured sprawled throughout the halls of Winterfell after the dead were defeated.

"Allow Arya and me to attend to the king now and later, after he has rested, we will send for a Maester to ensure that my work is satisfactory and to examine His Grace. Will that suffice?"

The two men reluctantly nod and she shepherds them from the tent with a soft smile and gentle assurances. When they are gone, she turns to Jon's squire with a request that he fetch warm water and boiled wine.

"I will be back in a moment." She glances over her shoulder toward her sister and Jon. "Keep that compress pressed firmly against the wound," she instructs Arya, then ducks outside and into the tent she shares with her sister. Dropping to her knees, she rummages through her trunk until she locates the small medical kit she had brought with her from Winterfell. She takes a moment to re-familiarize herself with its contents, satisfied to find clean bandages, a curved needle and fine silk thread as well as several pots of salves, ointments and powders.

She returns to find Jon perched on the edge of the table, Arya close by his side and the squire nervously hovering nearby, a concerned expression etched on his young face.

"Did you bring all I asked?"

"Yes, my lady." The boy points and she sees a wooden bucket and metal pitcher set near one corner of the table, lazy curls of steam rising from both.

"Then perhaps you might go to the cook tent and request some good, strong broth be made for His Grace."

"Aye, my lady," the boy says, bobbing his head and scurrying off to do her bidding.

"Now." She approaches Jon, and Arya steps to the side to allow her near. "Let us see what we are dealing with." She carefully eases the bloodied cloth away and sets it aside, gratified to find that the bleeding has slowed to a trickle.

"It's very deep," she murmurs as she gently probes at the edges of the wound. "And will require stitching." She pushes back a few dark curls that have escaped the knot at the back of his head and makes a tsking sound with her tongue.

"I may need to shave some of the hair here," she says, sweeping her fingers over a path along his hairline that is near as long as her forefinger. She turns her head and shoots a mischievous glance toward Arya and the two sisters burst into giggles.

For all that he is handsome, Jon is not a man who gives much thought toward his appearance. His vanities lie in his prowess with a sword and in his deeply held sense of honor. But both girls know that if he holds any conceit about his looks, it is in the glorious mane of hair that curls wildly about his face when left untamed and the faint look of horror in his expression sets them off into fresh gales of laughter.

He wrinkles his nose at them and lets out of an exaggerated huff of annoyance at their teasing and they swallow back their giggles.

"I am sorry," Sansa hiccups. "I could not resist," she says, raking gentle fingers through his curls once more. "I promise to leave your hair unmolested."

Their laughter trails off as she adopts a more serious tone and studies his wound again. "I believe this would be easiest if you were to lie down." She and Arya clear away a small stack of parchments awaiting his review and signature as well as other odds and ends scattered across the table. While Sansa sets out her supplies and washes her hands, Arya again steps close to Jon's side.

"When that building collapsed and you went down..." she says softly, "There was so much dust, I couldn't see you at first. I was so worried."

Sansa glances over to find her sister's arms wrapped around Jon's neck and her cheek pressed against his shoulder. "Don't scare me like that ever again," she orders in a small voice and Sansa is reminded of all the times she had seen her younger sister throw herself into Jon's arms when they were children at Winterfell.

"I'll try not to," he promises, pressing a kiss to the dark crown of her hair. "Will you do me a favor?" he asks as Arya takes a step back and swipes a furtive finger under her eye.

"What?"

"Will you go back and talk with Grey Worm? He'll be wondering what is happening. Ask if he will join us for the evening meal. And find out if anyone else was hurt," Jon requests.

"Grey Worm can break his fast with us tomorrow," Sansa counters, pouring some of the water into a basin and setting the bucket near one of the braziers to keep it warm. "And I am sure that he and the other team leaders will make certain that any who might have been injured are being tended to. _You_ are going to spend the remainder of this day resting."

She sees his mouth open in what she knows is an instinctive protest and knows she has won this brief skirmish of wills when he closes his mouth with a faint nod.

"Tomorrow morning," he agrees and Arya nods.

"I'll check in on you later," she says. "And I'll find out if anyone else was hurt," she whispers into the smacking kiss she presses to his cheek. "Behave for Sansa," she orders before whirling out with her trademark energy and Sansa watches her sister fly off with a fond smile.

"That girl will never walk if she can run," she sighs and sets the basin of water down at his side. "Let's get you cleaned up." She dips a cloth into the water and wrings it out, working quickly to wipe away the worst of the blood drying on his face before she begins the tedious task of cleaning the wound. She labors slowly and carefully to remove the dried blood, dirt and fine debris. When she is satisfied that she has cleaned the wound thoroughly, she empties and rinses the basin and then pours some of the boiled wine into it.

"Why don't you lie down now," she suggests. He swings his feet up onto the table and stretches out on its hard length with a low groan as various aches and pains make themselves known.

"I'm afraid this will sting," she says as she soaks a cloth in the wine and holds it to the open wound. His eyelids twitch and his brows draw tightly together for a moment, but he makes no sound as she sterilizes the injury. She runs the curved needle through the flame of a candle before threading it, dipping the fine silken thread into the wine for good measure.

"Are you ready?" She hesitates, hands poised above him and he opens his eyes to meet her gaze, urging her on with a nod. Taking a deep breath, she pushes the needle through his flesh at one end of the wound, wincing herself when she sees his hands curl into fists at his side and his jaw tighten.

She blows out a long, steadying breath and takes a second stitch. "Did I tell you that we received a raven from Sam today?" she asks hoping to distract him with conversation. "He, Gilly and the boys have arrived safely at Highgarden and have taken up residence."

"Samwell Tarly, a father and a husband," Jon murmurs. "Lord of Highgarden and of the Reach." He lets out a soft, sighing laugh. "What a long way he has come from the timid boy I met at the Wall."

"Jon Snow. Bastard of Winterfell. 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. King in the North and then of the Seven Kingdoms," Sansa counters with a smile. "You both have traveled far from the boys you once were."

He grunts and twitches his shoulders in an approximation of a shrug.

"I did not think that he would accept our offer," Jon says, surprising a startled laugh from Sansa.

"Turn down Highgarden?" she asks incredulously. "Who would do such a thing?"

"Sam," Jon says. "He's a quiet man. Happiest when lost in a mountain of books. I thought he would wish to take his family and settle at Horn Hill with his mother and sister. Lord of the Reach is..."

"A great responsibility." Sansa pauses in her work when Jon opens his eyes to look at her. "But surely you think him up to the task or you would not have agreed when Tyrion and I suggested him for the position."

"Oh, no. Sam will be brilliant," Jon sighs. "A smarter man I've never met. I'm sure he has already settled into the library at Highgarden and has buried his nose in books and scrolls and treatises on crops and the growing and harvest seasons so that when this winter ends, the Reach will be ready to plant."

"You miss him," Sansa realizes upon hearing the pride and fondness in Jon's voice as he speaks of his friend."

"Yes."

"Why did you not ask him to come to King's Landing?" she wonders aloud. "He could have served on your small council and just as importantly, been here as your friend."

"I wished to reward him," Jon murmurs, squinting up at her. "Not to punish him by dragging him to this cursed place."

She sighs and resumes her work, well aware of Jon's opinion about the South and King's Landing in particular and she finds she cannot blame him when she shares those feelings.

"Well, happily, he, Gilly and the boys now have Highgarden and Horn Hill to call home. Little Sam will one day be Lord of the Reach and baby Jon will be his loyal bannerman and have Horn Hill." She smiles to see the slight pink that flushes Jon's cheeks at the mention of his namesake.

"With Sam now officially Lord of Highgarden, he brings you the Reach," she muses thoughtfully. "As Lord of Casterly Rock, Tyrion brings you the Westerlands. By confirming Gendry as Lord of Storm's End, you have the loyalty of the Stormlands. My cousin Robin brings you the Vale and my Uncle Edmure –"

"The Tullys have long hated me," Jon reminds her. "I have little cause to believe that has changed."

"My uncle loved my mother," she says slowly, noting the telltale twitching of a muscle in Jon's jaw at the mention of Catelyn Stark. "And that love extends to her children. Arya, Bran and I are loyal to you," she vows. "And so I am sure my uncle will pledge the Riverlands to your cause."

He merely grunts in response to her words, his tone conveying doubt that such loyalty can be trusted for the long run, but is otherwise silent.

"The Crownlands are yours by right of birth and you are a Stark and the King chosen by the North. That leaves only the loyalty of the Iron Islands and Dorne as questions." She finishes her work, knotting the thread and snipping off the trailing end with small silver scissors. Retrieving the bucket of water, she washes her hands a final time and wipes away the blood that had beaded up at the edges of the sutures along his brow. Loosening the leather cord tying back his hair, she dips a cup into the bucket, pouring a small stream of water through the blood-matted curls. In truth he needs a bath, but she can see that his energy is fading and this will have to suffice for now.

Urging him to sit up, she uses a length of cloth to dry his hair, careful not to jostle his wound, then studies the small pots of salve in her kit and chooses one. Opening it, she dips a finger inside and smears a generous amount of the ointment over the sutures and then completes her work by winding a narrow bandage around his brow, securing it with a knot.

"Finished," she announces with a bright smile. She cocks her head to one side and lets out a quiet hum.

"We should arrange a coronation," she blurts out suddenly as she studies the linen crown about his head. "Call all of the lords here to pledge fealty to you."

"No."

She blows out a frustrated breath at his automatic refusal.

"Jon. Be reasonable. It is important that the realm see the lords of the provinces kneel before you and swear an oath of allegiance. It will lend legitimacy to your reign and it will provide us with an opportunity to suss out where Dorne and the Iron Islands stand."

"It is an expense we should not bear," he argues stubbornly. "I will not see monies wasted on feeding and entertaining the lords of these lands when it should be used to pay for repairs and food for the people."

"It need not be a great expense," she argues, stuffing her salves and bandages back into their pouch with poorly concealed irritation.

"Sansa." He lays a hand over hers, stilling her exasperated movements. "I know you think that I do not hear you when you give me counsel."

"Perhaps I think that because you so often do not listen to me," she says tartly and tries to tug her hand free, but he merely tightens his fingers over hers.

"You are wrong," he tells her solemnly. "I do listen to what you have to say. I just do not always agree." His shoulders move in a slight, self-deprecating shrug. "When all is said and done, I must do what I think is right."

"Even when you are proven wrong in the end?"

"Yes. And then the fault lies with me."

They have had some version of this conversation many times since their reunion at Castle Black. She remembers seeking him out after they had taken Winterfell back from the Boltons. Walking away from the kennels, the sounds of Ramsey's cries and the snapping of his hounds' jaws echoing satisfyingly in a dark part of her heart, she had sought out Jon's whereabouts, finding him in the crypts keeping watch over Rickon's body, whispering apologies to the lifeless boy for not being quick enough to save him.

"_You were right_," he had said then, not even looking up when she had approached. "_Ramsey was never going to let him live. I knew it when he sent Rickon across the open field. I could hear your voice in my head. Warning me it was a trap. Telling me not to take the bait. But I just... I couldn't live with myself if I had not at least tried to save him. And more... I could not let the last thing Rickon would ever see in this world be his older brother sitting safely out of range while he ran for his life. I was almost there, Sansa. I almost had him. Two more strides of my horse and..._"

He had looked at her then, as he does now, eyes weary and filled with mute apology and she realizes that she does not want to argue with him. Not now. She suppresses the urge to push him on the need for a coronation, for with Jon she has learned that it is sometimes best to plant the seed of an idea and then circle back to it once he has had time to consider. She nods her agreement and squeezes his hand before busying herself with once again emptying and rinsing out the basin.

"I have given some thought to whom we could gift with the lordship of the Last Hearth." Jon veers away from talk of a coronation and picks up the thread of their previous conversation

"Who?" she asks returning with fresh water. She dips a clean cloth into the basin and wrings it out.

"Rickard Liddle."

"House Liddle..." Sansa scours her memory but her schooling had been concentrated mostly on the major houses of the realm in preparation that she would one day be queen or lady of one of the great keeps in the land. "The name is familiar but I do not know much of them."

"They are a Northern mountain clan." Jon tips his head to one side as Sansa moves between his spread knees and begins to scrub away the lingering stubborn streaks of blood from his face and beard. "He is an officer in the Northern army. I've come to know him well these last months working together in the city."

"And you like him?" She loosens the ties of his tunic and pushes the fabric away so that she might better mop away blood that had trickled below his jaw and down his neck.

"I do. He is a third son. His eldest brother served as a Ranger in the Night's Watch. I do not know what became of him after the Wall fell. The second son is his father's heir. And there is a distant connection to House Umber through his mother's side." Jon's voice is soft and slightly slurred and he all but hums with contentment beneath her caring hands. "Thrice or more removed cousins. He is not entirely sure. But he gets along well with everyone – his fellow soldiers, the Unsullied – even the citizens of Kings Landing. He stands to inherit nothing from his father but I think he would make a just lord of a holding like the Last Hearth."

"And he will be loyal to you?"

"The Liddles have always been true to House Stark," he mumbles tiredly and she gently threads her fingers through his still damp hair.

"It sounds as if he is invaluable to you here." She sets aside the damp cloth in her hands and pulls his tunic back in place. "Can you spare him?"

"I have been thinking that it is time that the people of King's Landing begin to take care of themselves again," he says slowly. "Another turn or two of the moon should see us having cleared away enough of the debris that we can begin rebuilding –"

"Rebuilding!" she exclaims. "More than half the city remains decimated."

"Aye," he agrees. "But the plan was always to start building closest to the section of the city that had been left mostly unscathed," he reminds her. "And with so many dead there is no immediate need to rebuild to the scale the city once was." He heaves out a tired sounding sigh. "If we wait until all of the debris is cleared away it would be the better part of another year before we could begin to rebuild. My priority has always been to begin concentrating on building homes for those still sheltering in the Red Keep as quickly as reasonably possible and we will soon be near enough to start."

She toys absentmindedly with one of the ties of his tunic, winding it around her finger and releasing it while she considers his words. "Our men are soldiers," she notes. "Not builders."

"Rhaegar's money will help to pay for skilled teams to come here and there are enough among the citizens of Kings Landing looking for work. It is time for our men to return home. Kings Landing is not their sole obligation."

She nods, knowing he is right. "The North has much of its own rebuilding to do," she agrees. "It cannot heal with so many of its men still in the South."

"The North has long awaited the return of its sons." Once again, he takes her hands into his and peers into her face. "And its daughters," he says pointedly.

"No." She stumbles back two steps, shaking her head violently from one side to the other; her breath catching in her throat. "You would send me back? Now? When there is so much left to be done?"

"Kings Landing is not your responsibility either," he tells her. "You are the Lady of Winterfell. The North needs has need of you."

"And what of you?" she asks fiercely, breasts heaving as if she had run a great distance. "You would send your men home? Send me away? Who will stay here with you? What of Arya?"

"I would send her home too," he tells her. "But though she loves the North, she is not tied to it in the way you are, Sansa. It will take longer to convince her to go." He tugs on her hands and draws her between his knees again so that her skirts brush against the inside seams of his breeches.

"But I am so easy to manipulate?" Bitterness laces her words and she stares at her hands caught by one of his.

"I will not order you to leave," he murmurs. "It will be your decision alone to make. But your duty does not lie here. You have given enough of yourself to this place. And you fought too long and too hard to retake the North to leave it indefinitely." He tucks a thumb beneath her chin and raises her face to his.

"Tell me truly, when you came here all those months ago, was it your intention to remain indefinitely?"

She stares at him, mouth gaping open and is stunned to realize that more than half a year has passed since she left Winterfell and even more stunned to know that she has deliberately avoided thinking about the future.

"You don't belong here –" he begins. Shocked hurt races through her and she flinches and tries to draw away but he tightens his hand around hers, reeling her close.

"Do you think I want you to leave?" he asks. "I would keep you here with me forever," he confesses in a shamed whisper against her hair. "But it would be the most selfish act of my life."

"And if I told you it was my desire to stay?" she murmurs, her mouth but a hairsbreadth from his. If someone were to ask, she could not say when her feelings for him had grown so altered. She knows only that in this moment, she does not wish to be parted from him.

"Sansa." He groans her name when she lifts a hand to trace one finger over the bow of his upper lip and she sees his gaze drop to her own mouth. "We should not." He leans back but she tangles her fingers in the open laces of his tunic and holds him in place.

"We are cousins." She coils one lace tightly around her finger. "There would be nothing improper." She ignores the little voice whispering in her ear that he does not want what she does, focusing instead on his hands now resting on her hips, fingers digging into the wool of her skirt.

"Every man who has kissed me has stolen it – taken it against my will or forced me to pretend it was what I wanted," she tells him in an achingly soft voice. "Will you not be the first man to whom I willingly give my kiss?"

"Someday..." She sees his throat bob as he swallows back a groan. "Someday, you will meet a man and you will love him and marry him and you will happily give to him all of your kisses."

She shakes her head slowly back and forth, rejecting his words and shifts closer, her body brushing against his. "Once, Father told me that he would match me with someone who was brave and gentle and strong." She huffs out a bitter laugh at the memory of the stupid young girl so caught up in a world of fantasies that she could not see the danger that lay ahead or heed her father's wise counsel.

"That is you, Jon. There is no man beyond Father himself so brave and strong. So gentle. I will not find him elsewhere." She rests a hand over his heart. "Please. Kiss me. Once. So that I will know what it is to give my kiss freely to the kind of man Father dreamed of for me."

He leans toward her, unable to resist the twin pulls of his desire and her need. Their first kiss is quiet. A gentle rubbing of his mouth over hers before they part with a sigh.

"Again," she murmurs into the space between them and if the first kiss was sweetly chaste, the next surpasses anything she could ever have imagined in her girlhood fantasies. She is acutely aware of the chapped roughness of his lips against hers. The rasp of his beard against her smooth skin. The softness of his hair rioting wildly around her fingers. The heat of his hands burning through the wool of her skirt, fingers curled possessively over the rounded curves of her bottom. The insistent press of his arousal against her belly. The sharp nip of his teeth against her lower lip. His tongue slips past her lips to slide against hers once before retreating and she gives chase with a soft gasp of wonder.

They break apart, chests heaving and he rubs his thumb over her mouth, smearing the silent tears which track unheeded down her cheeks. In his eyes, she sees love. In the flush of his cheeks, desire. And in the downturn of his mouth, resignation, duty and sadness.

"Sansa –"

"Is it... because of her? Do you still think of her? Love her?"

His chest rises and falls on a long breath and his shoulders hunch forward as he gives a minute shake of his head.

"In a couple of moons, it will be that a full year has passed since what took place here," he muses with a sigh. "She has been dead now longer than the amount of time I knew her." He straightens his back and she shifts closer again as he raises a hand to cradle her cheek.

"I mourn what could have been," he murmurs. "I mourn who I thought her to be. But that was before the cracks began to show themselves. Before fear and grief and paranoia took their toll. His gaze is turned inward as he ruminates on all that had come to pass and the guilt he will forever feel for having betrayed his kin and queen, before he shifts his gaze back to her. "No," he says after a long minute. "It is not she who stands between us." His eyes darken with emotion. "But you will not remain here forever," he reminds her. "We would be foolish to begin something now when there is no happy end in sight."

"You will insist on sending me away?" she bites out, hurt and fury underlying the quiet of her voice.

"Sansa." His fingers toy with a lock of hair which has escaped her braid. "Do you imagine you could be happy here in this godsforsaken place? Where your father was murdered? Where your innocence was so cruelly stripped away from you? This place where you suffered so much torment?"

"I suffered great torment at Winterfell," she tells him. "More than I ever confessed to you," she says. "And yet you would send me back there."

"It grieves me to know how you suffered and I wish to all the gods that it had never been so. But though Winterfell is filled with ghosts both loved and despised, is it not also the place that houses your happiest memories? Is it not still the place you scraped and clawed and fought to return to? The place you badgered and pushed me toward when I would have walked away? Would you now leave it forever?" His hand drops away from her face and she feels it cover hers, prying at her fist to lace their fingers together.

"You told me once that Winterfell was the only place where you felt truly safe. Do not abandon it now to remain here with me," he urges. "I am bound to this place for my lifetime but you are not. I could not bear it if you should someday find yourself dissatisfied here... if staying in this place because of me were to become a source of misery for you. You deserve only to be happy."

She spears the fingers of her other hand through his dark curls and presses her forehead to his.

"And if I told you that I think that being here with you is what makes me happy? That I might be... that my feelings for you..." She swallows, afraid to admit to her growing feelings if he were not to return them.

"Do not love me." His hand tightens over her in a fierce grip. "Do not. Every woman who ever has, beginning with my own mother, has died of her love of me. Has died _because _of me. Do not wish it for yourself."

She yanks her hand from his. "I do not care to discuss this any longer." She whirls away from him with a swish of her skirts and busies herself with clearing away the soiled rags, tossing them into the now empty basin with an angry, wet splat.

"Sansa." Her name on his lips is a serrated sigh of longing and regret.

"No." She looks at him, sees the bruises peeking out from beneath his bandage and her expression softens. "I do not want to argue with you right now," she murmurs, wishing only to retain the memory of the sweetness of their kisses. "Not when you are exhausted and in pain." She rummages through her pouch again and uncorks a bottle containing a white powder, tipping a small amount of its contents into a tin cup and splashing fresh water over it.

"Here." She thrusts the cup toward him with an outstretched hand.

"What is it?" he asks suspiciously and she is reminded of the mulish expression so often seen on Arya's face whenever their mother or Maester Luwin would try to dose her with medicine as a child.

"It is only a little something for your headache," she assures him soothingly.

"What makes you think I have a headache?" he asks, taking the cup from her.

"Oh, Jon." She smiles and steps closer until she is once again standing between his legs. "I know because of this," she says cupping the tight line of his tight jaw in one hand. "And because you have this line right here." She runs one finger along the vertical crease that has formed between his brows.

"Take your medicine. It will help you sleep and then we can argue again in the morning." She places a finger beneath the cup in his hands and urges it towards his mouth. He swallows the contents in two quick gulps, his face scrunching briefly at the bitter taste.

She takes the cup from him and sets it aside and he leans toward her, tiredly resting his brow against her breast for a long moment and when he raises his head again, his eyes are red and her bodice is damp with his tears.

"Come," she says soothingly and helps him to stand. "You must get some rest."

She leads him to his bed and he stretches out on the feather filled mattress with a sigh. She sits on the edge of the narrow bed and again winnows her fingers through his curls.

"Go to sleep," she urges, watching him blink and fight a losing battle against the effects of the medication. When his lashes flutter closed to form dark crescents upon his cheeks, she stands and is startled when he reaches out and tangles his fingers in her skirts to stop her.

"When I wake up, we'll talk about the coronation," he promises and she knows he offers it as a gesture to make up for wanting to send her home.

It is a hollow victory.

Notes: I know time, especially travel time, in the world of GOT is rather fluid and rarely addressed in the show. In my mind, it likely would have taken Sansa at least six weeks (probably more) to travel by horse from Winterfell to Kings Landing in the winter months. And she's been in KL for several months more, so I'm settling on a nice round six months since she was last at Winterfell.

I have had this chapter completed for at least two weeks and have read and re-read it over and over. I'm not wholly satisfied with it, but after multiple reviews and edits, this is what my brain has produced and I'm at the point of over-thinking it.

The next chapter will be a multi-POV chapter. I have a good chunk, but not all, of it written.

-emn


End file.
